


Nowhere Man

by power0girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 59,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/power0girl/pseuds/power0girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to the lovely 'Love Me Do' by Marlboro Blanc (FanFic.com), John is alone and on the run. What all does he have to do before he can finally go home? Will there be a home to go to when he does?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Making All His Nowhere Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love Me Do](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/18105) by Marlboro Blanc. 



> Right! So here I am again! This time i'm writing a sequel to the wonderful story 'Love Me Do' by Marlboro Blanc. It will be helpful if you read it first, though I won't demand you do, hint, hint ;) All I'll say is, here's the blurb:
> 
> Moriarty wants a spy in Baker street so he sends his best man John Watson to do the Job, what happens next threatens to destroy them all.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to PM me if you have questions.
> 
> And now on to the sequel!

 

 

 

John (or Ioannes, as he tried to remind himself continuously) double checks his knapsack for the provisions and equipment necessary for the climb. Nodding to himself he shoulders the pack with a wistful thought, 'Harry would have loved...' Forcefully he stops that line of thought and plasters a pleasant demeanour on.

Cultivating his fake Greek-accented english he rounds the corner of the taverna to see the guest he's taking up the mountain. "Ah, here we are 'kupia', ready for your adventure?"

The woman in her early forties gives him a tiny smile, "Yes, I'm excited to see what the higher portions of Mount Dikti have to offer!"

"Vaì kalà, shall we be getting on then?" he shoulders a satchel as well as another bottle of water. Trying to immerse himself into his cover persona. Ioannes, the washed out military grunt who helps his cousin with the tours in and around the Diktaean Cavern.

Petros, a very kind man, had a brother stationed on Cypres at the same time as John. Phaeton (the brother) had always been very proud of the fact that his family came from the cradle of civilisation, both Minoan and the origin of the gods. He frequently told John stories about his brother who worked as a guide for the local land mark caverns. Often saying they should head down there on leave, but John always went back to England to see his ailing mother.

Some years later, out of the blue, John received notice of Phaeton's passing through Petros. Apparently the brothers had often talked, through the years, of the troubled young Englishman with the sick mother. Petros related that his brother had taken a fatal wound in a freak accident during a riot. He went on to express Phaeton's high opinion of John and repeated his younger brother's offer to put-up John if he ever decided to visit.

'I wonder if Phaeton ever thought I'd be seeking asylum with his brother some day... Probably, he was almost as bad as Sherlock.'

That thought burns through him like acid and he actually stumbles kicking loose some rock on the trail. Covering his lack of observance by turning around to converse with the woman he's guiding, he tries to keep his expression from revealing any of the inner turmoil in his heart, and tugs his cap down low over his eyes.

"Petros told me your name, but sadly my memory isn't all that it should be."

She smiles, "My name is Mary, Mary Morstan, and you are my capable guide Ioannes, younger cousin to Petros."

John nods, "Yes I am, but what is a lovely lady like yourself doing traveling about, like this, without a man to protect her?" Inwardly John is cringing, he would never say something so horribly sexist to a modern woman, but things are different here. Not that the men are sexist, really, more chivalry is still quite strong, and John knows to emulate the common cultural gaffs that Mary has probably heard dozens of times already on her trip.

Mary, wry smirk on her face, none the less answers his question, "My father was stationed in India, and my mother died while I was a toddler; so as I was educated in the UK, one can imagine I traveled a lot between the two on my own."

Nodding emphatically along with her, John turns and begins climbing again, Well that's lovely, he's half alienated the person he has to spend three nights with, up on a mountain no less, brilliant.

"You do that out loud you know?"

John freezes, for a moment his brain cannot separate the teasing jovial tone Mary employes from the memory of Sherlock dispassionately stating the obvious. All he can do is drop his head and pretend to be suppressing laughter. Without turning he replies, trying to imbue the words with carefree emotions that just aren't there.

"Yeah well, Petros always says I'm not really fit for cultured company, that I fit out here and no where else. Maybe he's right." As John rounds a switchback in the trail he's caught by Mary's eyes. Not because she is looking at him full of pity, but acceptance and understanding.

He finishes the climb silently.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John is dreaming, of that he is certain, but that is all he knows. He feels as though he is being drug through a shallow, but very fast flowing rivulet of dark fetid water that has an oily film on the surface. He recognises the chaotic jumble as his memories, but every time he 'breaks the surface' within the dream he looses himself to a memory.

Horrible screeching hardly recognisable as Harry devolves into moans, then a broken whispered voice breaks through, "Jonny? Dear god Jonny, run... I'm so..." Her voice is suddenly cut short, Jim's hands clenching impossibly tight, robbing her of any ability to speak, let alone breathe.

John sits bolt upright, sweat pouring down off his face, breath whistling through his aching throat, as though he's been heaving it in for ages already. After a few minutes his eyes focus on the fire, then the fact that he isn't alone, and lastly that Mary is watching him from the depths of her sleeping bag. "Sorry." is all he manages to croak out.

Popping her head and shoulders out of the warmth she props herself up on the cold stony ground, "Please don't feel you need to apologise for things that are torturing you, I was awake already so you didn't disturb me at all." John happily takes the diversion, "Why were you awake already?"

"I'll tell you, if you tell me what woke you." her almost flirtatious tone belied by her eyes that seem to be tracking his reactions. John feels an anxious fluttering in his stomach as he is once again reminded of Sherlock's appraising looks.

Not that John doesn't think about his past love often, if not every day, but it isn't usually in comparison to another person. Calming himself further before answering he stares into the fire.  
"I saw a lot of action a while back and somehow I'm the only one left. My dreams are all a horrible jumble of war and fighting for my life, it's... horrible."

Mary settles back into her sleeping bag, pulling the ties tight to hold the warmth in, "I left someone back home, and sometimes I'm not sure I should have."

John rolls himself back up in a ball facing the fire, "That's where I have you beat, my dear, I know I shouldn't have left him behind." Closing his eyes and rolling away he pretends to have fallen asleep when her confused voice asks him, "Who?"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

In the morning they both behave as though the conversation had never taken place. There was no awkward moment of pretending it didn't mean anything, just the silent agreement, of two adults, that what they said was all that could be, and it was a significant turning point for each of them.

Mary took reels and reels of photos off the upper trails, beautiful vistas and charmingly delappitated windmills, and the two of them relaxed significantly as their trip went on.

Text MSGs

10/09/12 19:44Rob: Boss, she's gone up the mountain with a questionable guide. Can you get a grunt to check him out? Ioannes Kostas?

14/09/12 8:05Jim: WHERE ARE THEY? NOW!

14/09/12 8:07Rob: Still on the mountain boss, GPS tag on my phone is approximate, I'm staying at their home base at the taverna.

14/09/12 8:07Jim: start up the mountain, do NOT engage, but make sure they are STILL THERE. I'll be there in a few hours.

14/09/12 8:08Rob: Your coming here? I'm, going up right now.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 


	2. A Point Of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we get a bit more information, hee hee.

John looked across at Mary as they began the descent. Opposite to how he thought she'd look at the end of a wonderful three days taking pictures up in the mountains, as soon as they start heading down she's looking stressed and twitchy. His instincts as a soldier boil over in an instant and he reaches out to stop her.  
  
  
"Mary?" he waits till she's looking full at him, "That someone you left behind in England?"  
  
  
Her cheeks come up a bit ruddy, her frame rigid "Yes?"  
  
  
"Are you perhaps worried they might not have stayed in England?"  
  
  
Her entire face becomes rigid with fear, "Why?" she says turning her head to look down the trail ahead, "What did you see?"  
  
  
  
Thinking quickly, John turns and heads off the trail, "Come on." He takes several steps down the trail before he realises she's not following. With a huff of frustration he traverses back and grabs onto the strapping of her hiking pack and tugs, "We need to talk, preferably somewhere we aren't seen, so let's go!"  
  
  
All the while trying to look menacing Mary slowly follows John to a screen of scrub he's crouched down behind. Looking down-hill a moment she gets distracted and walks off the track John made and when she looks for him the mountainside is empty. Spinning around she starts to hyperventilate with worry, 'Where has he gone.' there is one or two bunches of vegetation, but none of them can hide a person, let alone two!  
  
  
Suddenly a voice right beside and above her, "Mary! I'm right here!"  
  
  
Jumping slightly she spins to the left to see 'Ioannes's head poking out over the edge of a plant that she would have thought couldn't hide a dog! "My god, why couldn't I see you?" Her guide laughs, "I was stationed on Cyprus and then later Afghanistan," he flips back his blanket and shoves his pack a bit around the edge of the plant. "one either finds a place to hide, or you die there."  
  
  
Something comes to her suddenly, that 'Ioannes's blanket he's been sleeping under is actually a dirt covered camo print, and his rucksack as well. Mary's lips open to ask him why when another thought pops into her brain. 'Greek troops weren't deployed in Afghanistan...' her eyes widen in shock as she scrambles away from him in the dust.  
  
  
John who had been watching the hillside carefully, catching a glint of light off moving metal, is only half listening and is as such caught completely flat footed. He swears he can see in his minds eye how her scramble would look to someone looking for them from below. 'Bollocks!'  
  
  
"Mary!" too late, by far, to keep the story going he hisses out, "think that through, regardless of why I'm not really Ioannes, do you think I'd wait till we were heading back to the taverna, rather than toss you off some of the lovely escarpments we've been on and tell officials a sad tale when I returned?"  
  
  
'Shit! Was that a second flash? Who ever it is must be running now.' Trying desperately to look as unassuming as possible, he turns back to her, "Mary, please, for the love of god! Remember the first night, and what we said, please stop painting targets on our heads."  
  
  
A quickly as the panic came it went and Mary is staring downhill with John. In moments she too sees a flash of light intermittently twinkling as their pursuer travels at just the right (or wrong from his point of view) angle to the sunlight.  
  
  
"Right, let's get out of here, you can tell me who the hell you are later."  
  
  
Grimly gathering everything up, including her pack, John barks out a laugh, "If we live long enough I'll tell you everything. Keep bent at the waist and knees as much of the time as you can, the topography will help us a bit there." throws the blanket at her, "drape that around your shoulders, your pink jacket isn't doing us any favours!"   
  
  
Silently now he checks her bag is secured on his chest, under the straps of his rucksack, and everything else is left under the bush. Tugging her along in a diagonal to the trail he heads up to the edge of a ravine running away from the trail. Directing her one handed in front of him he obscures the tracks they've made as much as possible moving crouched over practically on hands and knees.  
  
  
Once they are in the ravine, he stops to look back down the mountain for a while. "Okay Mary, I don't think your revelation is going to get us killed this morning, so let's take this route down and I'll tell you what you need to know."  
  
  
Mary nods curtly and follows his quick steps down the slope, after five or ten minutes of walking they come to a fairly densely covered, bubbling rivulet of a stream. Surrounded on all sides by tall cypress trees they feel it's somewhere safe they can stop to drink some water and catch their breath. Leaning back against his pack, John strips away his Grecian cap, kerchief and yanks his tags out from under his vest, proudly displaying them against his shirt.   
  
  
Smiling he extends his right hand, "Hello," his English accent strong and clear, "my name is John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, it is nice to meet you."  
  
  
Mary, with an odd look on her face, of not quite believing the rabbit hole she's fallen in, shakes the extended hand completely forgetting to let go. "Right, and this is true now?"

  
With a concerned expression he shifts her fingers to lie over his pulse point and nods encouragingly at her. Mary asks her fist question, "Why are you here?"  
  
  
Feeling his pulse stutter under her fingers, John thinks a moment about Sherlock and how much he has given up in the last years, the people he has let down. Getting ahold of the panic he swallows a couple times to steady his voice, "There are a few reasons, and I could spread around the blame, but ultimately I fell in love and I had to leave him to stay alive."  
  
Mary blinks, absorbing John's words, "Why?"  
  
  
His free hand fisting in frustration John turns his head to look into the flowing water. "It's a long story, but the gist is, my older sister Harriet broke the heart of a young lady who happened to be under the protection of a very powerful man, her older brother."  
  
  
His face takes on a lost look, "And that man decided that he wanted me as restitution, at first I thought he would just force me to lie or steal, but I was wrong." Looking at her carefully, "Did you hear about Sherlock Holmes at all? As far as I know he wasn't that well known." He pauses to give her time to think about it and eventually she nods.  
  
  
"I do recall hearing something about him... Didn't he solve... Oh my god, your that John Watson! Doctor John Watson?! I was on your blog once or twice, good lord that's weird!"   
  
  
John nods, "A bit yeah, but here we are. Did you ever read the case files, like 'Study in Pink,' or 'The Great Game'?" she shakes her head no, "Well there was a man behind a lot of our cases, like a criminal master mind, who set them all up. He was the man my sister offended. I was sent to spy on Sherlock and keep things from him, as if that would cancel the dept my sister owed, but it couldn't last."   
  
  
"Somehow despite my 'orders' we fell in love and consummated that love. Which my employer did not tolerate well. He had me kidnapped and tortured to within an inch of my life. In fact if it had not been for my land lady coming home from the shops to find me in the street I would have died in mere minutes."  
  
  
His pulse is thundering along as he sees the last minutes of his torture, the rape he will not tell this woman about, that he wished no one else knew about. Shaking the memory away, like a dog does water, he continues "It was clear that this man wanted me dead, and that would hurt Sherlock, so once I was fit for travel my sister and I left under assumed names with false documents."  
  
  
Mary watched this strange chameleon of a man's face become drawn with anguish and remembered pain. Pulling her fingers away she shifts a bit nearer, "So you are a fugitive from a criminal master mind, maybe we should pool our resources."  
  
  
John quirks an eyebrow, "And what are you a fugitive from?"  
  
  
Mary shrugs up one shoulder and pokes the heel of her hiking boot into the dirt by the stream, "My fiancé, Rand Savage. I met his father when I was twelve visiting my father in India and they both thought we'd hit it off. You know that weird thing some friends do where they say 'Oh our kids should marry, wouldn't that be nice,' but no one ever means it... I think Rand's father did. When I was sixteen he wrote my father and asked if all was well with me and if he had found me a match yet."  
  
  
Glancing up to see the incredulous look John's giving her, Mary laughs, "Yeah, I know, it is the 21st century, right? Well it was the 20th century at the time, not that it mattered, my Father had been living as well as working in a country where women's rights don't apply to everyone, so his ideals tend to skew a bit toward old fashioned."   
  
  
"You know the funny thing, while I am a feminist, generally speaking, this idea I'd marry his son didn't enrage me like it should have." she waves the oddness of the statement away with her hand. "I don't know, maybe it was the picture of him, his father sent along with the letter to my father, he was quite dashing and fit." Mary's cheeks colour a bit, "I was only 16 after all and it's quite possible I was compromised by such things."  
  
  
John arches his eyebrow, "I see, that fit was he?"  
  
  
Her blush darkens, "Uhm, yes? He was the typical tall dark and handsome dream, you know?" John nods his eyes taking on a far away look, "I can understand an attraction to tall and dark, yes."  
  
Mary looks at him for a few moments, "That's right, Sherlock Holmes' quite dark isn't he?"  
  
  
John nods, his expression both wistful and steeped in sorrow, "As well as being dark haired, he's six foot and built like a greyhound." fumbling in his pockets he pulls out his wallet and digs into the back flap, pulling open the seam, he extracts a worn picture of a man Mary instantly recognises.   
  
  
"Oh him! He's been in the news a lot lately, solving the unsolvable for the Met so they say." She looks closely at the photo, avoiding Johns desperate expression, "He doesn't look half this good though, skinnier and a bit..." she pauses and then looks at John for a long moment. "Well just like you actually, sorry."  
  
  
Carefully putting the photo back in it's hidden seam, John shakes his head a bitter smile on his lips, "Actually, the news that he's still working, solving crimes, is the best thing I've heard all year, thank you."  
  
  
Looking away in an attempt to give the wounded man beside her some space, Mary looks up into the cypress tree above them. "Rand is a lot more muscular than your Sherlock, but likes well cut suits about the same." Mary giggles slightly, half in amusement, half in discomfort for her guide. "Like I said, it was probably hormones that made me entertain the idea in the first place and as the years went by I forgot about it."  
  
  
"Then one day at Uni I was in the pub with a truly horrendous bloke, one pint and he thought he could paw at me however he chose, I got pretty indignant, though quiet. I had just tromped on his toes as hard as I could when a familiar face appeared across the dingy pub. It was Rand, he'd turned to see where the horrific screech came from and caught my eye."  
  
  
"Like a perfect gentleman he came over and said hello. By the time we had exchanged greetings my 'date' was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he was in London for a conference, he was doing a business degree at Oxford, and would be in town a week. We met a couple times, but I... Well, truth be told in the back of my head that old letter kept pestering me. So I blew him off a couple times and he seemed to get the hint and I didn't hear from him for five years."  
  
  
Looking back at John's clearly interested face she carries on, "You know, I seem to attract the same kind of man over and over, they seem nice and biddable enough till we've been together for a few months, and after Uni I had the worst luck! Admittedly I kept running into Rand, but I was always in a relationship when I saw him, except the last time."  
  
  
"I guess I was always a bit suspicious of him just wanting to be with me just because his father had suggested it, but after he asked me out to coffee seven or eight times I relented and agreed only if he answered my concerns." Laughing humourlessly at herself she runs a hand through her fringe, "He explained his father had a degenerative illness, and couldn't make him do anything. That last visit I'd seen him, when I was twelve, was just before he was diagnosed and he hasn't been out of the hospital since. Of course I asked, why he was interested in me, and he blushed admitting he'd seen a picture of me in among his Father's holiday snaps and thought I was pretty."  
  
  
"God I was so thick John, I just accepted this strange story, didn't question how he recognised me that night in the pub, I didn't question why he was there when I ran from the last relationship. But here I was, late twenties and I started thinking I had better start looking to settle down, so when Rand asked me out to coffee again I agreed, eight months later he proposed."  
  
  
"I started to wonder the day I met his business partner Jim. God, that man sent shivers down my spine every time he walked in the room..." she starts and falls silent as John's hand falls on her arm. Looking at him with wide eyes she waits for him to either say something or pass out.  
  
  
John, his ears ringing and the world spinning around him, swallows convulsively, "Wha....what... tell me about him, please." His vision greying out at the edges, John waits breathlessly for her answer.  
  
  
Mary, searching his face, worried answers as best she can. "He's only an inch or so taller than you, dark hair and, god, almost black eyes they're so dark brown..." she pauses as the colour drains out of John's face. Grimly he grits out, "Tell me about his accent."  
  
  
Mary's hand flies to cover her mouth in shock and horror, her eyes round, "How did you know he has an accent?" John just shakes his head 'no' waiting for her to continue. "He has a lilting soft Irish accent he sometimes obscures behind an Oxford accent, Rand said he picked it up Uni when they attended Oxford together. He's what Rand calls a fixer, and I have to admit  he makes my soul quake."   
  
  
Lurching to his feet John runs a few paces away and retches uselessly into the dust for a few minutes. Mary stares after him a moment then she slowly walks toward him. "Do you know this man John? Do you know his name?"  
  
  
Shifting back on his haunches, wiping the spittle from his face John looks up at his equally pale hiking companion, "Jim, Jim, fucking, Moriarty. Oh my GOD." John jumps upright to grab at her upper arms, "How long have you been on the run?"  
  
  
Feeling, very suddenly, confused Mary shakes her head, "Well about eight weeks I guess, why?"  
  
  
Clutching her arms tighter, "Have you been using any of your cards? Any ID?"  
  
  
She looks at him like he's gone a bit mad, "Of course? I pay cash when I can, but I had to use my passport to get to Greece!" Leaning away from John now, she's beginning to worry about his fevered expression. That's when the other shoe drops. "Oh my god, he's the man your sister got into trouble with!"  
  
  
John lets go of Mary, shoving her lightly to the side and scrambling to get his pack back on. "Yes, and you haven't been very careful in your travels, which means you may well have made this last year, of hell, count for nothing! All of this time alone, killing us both with heart ache undone by me sticking to my bloody cover! Bloody buggering fuck! You've lead him right to me!"  
  
  
Grabbing up her pack he starts toward Mary, "Put this on, we have to get off this mountain." shaking her head in awe she get it on, Mary hurries behind John as he jumps into the shallow stream and starts walking downstream.   
  


 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still more pins and needles, sorry, I'd love to get all descriptive on this chapter, but the are figuring out they should be running for their lives ;P
> 
> Ta


	3. What He's Going To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More running down a mountainside!

John's eyes are blind to the beautiful view ahead of them, the gorgeous patchwork of fields bellow holds only possible enemies lying in wait for them. A part of his mind stores the view for later, a trick he learned from his beloved, as he looks back to check on Mary. Stifling irritation he slows his pace, knowing that keeping her at a fast trot through the shallow stream is only asking for her to fall in it.  
  
  
  
"Sorry Mary, you have to speak up if I've gone on too long at a pace, I'll forget and channel my basic training otherwise." John watches as she slows to a walk her arm clasped to her side, 'She must have developed a stitch,' gulping in air she speaks, "Sor-sorry John. I was saving the breath needed talking to, well, breathe!"  
  
  
John smiles at her, "Next time just kick some water up at me." as he riffles through his pockets for his folding binoculars. He actually comes to a full stop as he scans the top of the ravine they started in an hour ago. Frozen like a rabbit in the headlamps he scans the crest of the hill silently, "So far we have been lucky. Our sniper was several hours below us on the trail when we left it, and I covered our trail well enough that on the first pass he will not see where we left it."   
  
  
"So he'll likely climb all the way to our last camp and upon finding it abandoned, work his way back down looking for our trail. This should take him the better part of the day. We did have that long stop where we discovered our mutual 'friend'," John spits the word out like it is full of barbs and poison, "which has slowed us up a fair bit. Though our recent progress has made up for it I think."  
  
  
Pointing now the way they must travel, "We have to go down and around that long curve, that's why I've been pressing so hard, because if he gets to the head of the ravine before we get around that bend he can shoot us dead."  
  
  
He notes the pallor of his companion and does some quick adjustments in his mind. "Give me your pack please." at her confused look he starts taking his pack off. "Look, I'm trained military, accustomed to carrying a ruck twice the weight of the one I have today. Your a holidayer who's not used to fast travel. We need to move fast to not have our heads blown off. This is not about me being a man, it's training. I know several men you'd march into the ground."  
  
  
  
Mary, who's facial expression had gone from confused to irritated, then to amused, just shakes her head and strips off the pack. "Yeah, yeah, I'm happy to be rid of the damn thing. How the hell are you standing there not even out of breath after all our dashing about?!"  
  
  
John chuckles as he slips the smaller pack on his chest and then manoeuvres his own ruck onto his back, "Well, I have been living off the grid for two years, so I've been walking everywhere and working to pay my way rather than using currency or cards." Wiggling his toes in his boots John looks contemplatively at the ankle deep water they are moving through. "Mary? How are your feet doing? Developing any chilblains?"   
  
  
Mary lifts one foot and shakes the water out a bit, "You know I have no idea, my feet are so cold and wet!" John nods and turns to start up again, "Okay, we have maybe twenty minutes to get around that bend, if we jog straight through, are you game?"  
  
  
  
"Now that you've taken the pack off me, sure."  
  
  
John gives her a wide smile and shifts into 'captain' mode again, "Alright Morstan, no lagging behind now lightweight, let's move out!" Suppressing giggles the two of them start jogging downstream.  
  
  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
  
  
14/09/12 12:23Jim: I'm on the island, app two hours till I get to you, update.

  
14/09/12 12:48Rob: Quick trip Boss, I'm halfway up to what is commonly used as a campsite at the end of these tours. No sightings yet, but that's not unusual, early day yet and if they decided to extend their stay, I'll be ready for them when they get to the camp site.

  
14/09/12 12:49Jim: What do you mean you haven't seen them, from what I've seen of the surveillance your ascent/descent route should be exposed, you should have seen them in four hours of climbing! You had better not bollocks this up, or I'll make your arse my footstool!

  
14/09/12:51Rob: She doesn't know we are this close boss, she won't be looking for a tail in the mountains. It's probably just like France, she wanted to ditch the feeling of being surrounded in the city, so she's off in the wilds with a fit bloke for a couple nights. Next thing we know she'll be back leading me a merry chase again.

  
14/09/12 12:51Jim: Do not presume to think for yourself, just bloody well keep your mind on target, her guide is ex-military.  
  
  
Throwing his phone aside in disgust Jim flips through the maps and photos the local geologist provided him. There were a few nooks and crannies, his informant had told I'm about, that would be adequate cover from someone on the mountain with you. But the minute you add an arial component to the search those spots are completely exposed.  
  
  
All except one, and that is where John will go, "Cradle of Zeus, huh? Well soon enough it will be the tomb of one John Hamish Watson."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	4. The World Is At Your Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah at last the confrontation!!!

With quite a few glances over his shoulder at the end there, John guides Mary around the bend and into a sheltered spot. Urging her to sit on the pack he throws down, John starts rifling through his, "Alright we traveled through the water for a couple kilometres, they shouldn't be able to follow now with dogs even if they tried." Ignoring her squeak of panic, "Now get those wet boots and socks off, I need to see your toes."  
  
  
"You don't think they'll bring dogs do you?" John watched as she shivered in the hot September sunshine, "I do not put anything past James Moriarty, he is a relentless snake." John mutters under his breath examining her feet.  
  
  
xxxxxxxxxxxx  
  
  
14/09/12 14:37Jim: I'm here. Status?  
  
  
14/09/13 14:38Rob: Thought I saw people on the trail above me, haven't caught up to them no matter how hard I've tried. Retracing down the mountain.  
  
  
14/09/13 14:38Jim: Start praying you catch them up, now.  
  
  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
  
  
  
Patting her feet dry John applies cream and gauze to the pinkend toes,  "Why do you think he knows your here John?"  trying to control the tremor in his left hand at Mary's gentile question he tries to avoid answering, "Okay be careful and put a dry pair of socks on. Different shoes as well, we won't be going in the water, or off path anymore, so trainers or flats will do. Just not sandals"  
  
  
"John?" her eyes full of concern she stops him from moving with a hand gently laid on his arm. All at once something slips into place, an elusive thought coming forward to make itself known. His gaze is too restless, his posture coiled for attack even though, all they have seen of pursuit is a hiker several hours behind them, Mary comes to an uneasy realisation. John is afraid of Jim, deathly afraid and that doesn't seem right. Quiet now she lets go of his arm.   
  
  
She watches as John strips off his own boots that, being military grade, had kept his feet mostly dry, unlike her, he just has to swap out socks. Mary finds herself worrying clues like a dog with a favourite bone and the way John had thrown up upon finding out Jim's name pops suddenly to mind. Mary feels certain that if it was just the same sense of distress she felt in Jim's company he'd not have done that, it must be something else.  
  
  
It's clear he's not a coward either, or he would have let her wander off the trail that morning and taken off to save his own skin. There was something here, something nagging at her memories, which frankly made it stranger. After all, she'd never set eyes on John before this week.  
  
  
Their footwear switched John puts both the packs on again and leads the way past another outcropping of stone and suddenly below them they can see the path up to the Diktaean caves. Hope surges in Mary's heart that John has lead her out of this safely, but her companion's expression is grim.  
  
  
Off to their left, just below them, there is what can only be described as a hole in the mountainside. From their position it looks like a titan poked a finger into the side of the mountain wiggling it around shifting great bands of rock apart to rest diagonally against each other. The hole is deep and black with a glint of an, absurdly enough, safety rail along the bottom edge.  
  
  
Stifling a gasp of awe Mary whispers, "The Diktaean Caves, I was looking forward to them."  
  
  
John grunts his answer as he scours the countryside for evidence of their pursuers. Not seeing a thing he turns toward the caves, "The caves offer a few places we can hide. A couple of them we'll just be hiding on the path, but it might be necessary to go off the path as well. In that case I'll go first to find the safest spots."  
  
  
Mary just follows silently as they draw towards the dark maw in the ground. There's a dampness to the place that even in the bright September sun makes her shiver. A shiver that becomes a full on shudder as they step into the dark cavern and the sun light is blocked out completely.   
  
  
There's the sound of birds shuffling about off to the right of the entrance and a wide secure path downward with metal railings. The cavern is lit only by the sunlight from the opening and the stalactite and stalagmites all around are sparsely illuminated. Hanging down overhead is a curtain of green vegetation, a testimonial to the richness of the soil on the lasithi plateau, growing in a narrow band of earth that has collected between the layers of rock propped against one another. It's vibrant green giving way to paler likens covering the rock formations all around.  
  
  
Mary's eyes widen comically and John has to stifle inappropriate laughter as he motions for her to be quiet. Going to speak he turns his body away from the crevasse, so that their voices can't carry and echo, "Normally the place is lit with flood lamps of all colours to emphasise the beauty of the rocks, but the tourist season is over so it's off most of the time. I'll not turn it on sorry. If we live through today I'll turn it on for you." Mary nods solemnly while her eyes roam the whole of what her eyes can distinguish in the gloom.  
  
  
Everywhere her eyes land there are stalactites and stalagmites growing out of the rock bed. In some places they have grown up to meet the corresponding growth from the ceiling with that beautiful manner of melted wax candles, the steady dripping sound giving away how they appeared and how long it took to do so. Mary shudders at the implication of that, how little and small their lives and worries are compared to the eternal remodelling of the Earth's surface.  
  
  
John quietly lets her stare as he works to get his eyes adjusted as quickly as possible and scans around to pick their hideout. Thinking the best path is the one to the right John urges Mary forward with a whispered, "Walk toe-heel to reduce the noise of your steps." Then he leads her down the cement walkway, to the left branching of the trail, to get down to the lowest point of the grotto, the lake. As they almost silently progress along John hears voices, or rather one voice on a mobile, a voice John'd rather not have heard ever, ever again.  
  
  
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James Moriarty looked at the simpering Greek man beside him, 'So very ordinary, thank god for the distraction of John Watson!' subtly palming himself at the thought of having the ex-army doctor in his grasp again he tunes out the man's useless prattle. His mobile ringing tone of the Bee Gees 'To Love Somebody's melodic chorus breaks into the silence of the car.   
  
  
"Yes Robert? Are you praying yet or not?" He listens to the quivering voice on the other side of the device, "Boss, they ditched their normal route down the mountain."  
  
  
Drumming his fingers agrivatedly on the door panel of the car, "You better be up to a couple 'hail Mary's, cause that sweetheart, is oh-hoe-h-old news!" Rob's nervous swallow, auditory even through the mobile's tiny speaker, makes it clear Jim's sing-song speech patterns are making his henchman's skin crawl. With a smirk he waits the thicky Rob out.  
  
  
"Well I mean, I... f..found their alternate trail Boss."  
  
  
Fierce glee floods his mind, 'I have him!' "Congratulations, you may not need the intervention of divine power yet? Where does it go?"  
  
  
The voice looses even more of it's self assurance, "Well Boss, he hid his tracks and went into the water to loose me, but his trajectory leads to the Diktaean caves."  
  
  
Anger bright and harsh floods Jim's reality with one driving need, he must hurt this man that has failed him. "So your saying you haven't a fucking clue where they are, or what they are up to, but your too much of a tosser to even admit that!?! Move in on the caves and keep a sharp eye out."  
  
  
Switching off and throwing the mobile onto the seat beside him he grins morbidly at the man beside him, "Find me a quick way up the mountain, I don't care how." the Grecian man looks blankly at him for a couple seconds, "Well there are donkeys that will go up the trail...?" His posture and tone clearly expressing his worry over infamous 'Moriarty's reaction to the suggestion. He does not disappoint.  
  
  
After they get back in the car and the driver has wiped his hands off the battered man beside Jim pulls out his own mobile with a shaking hand and calls ahead. Jim's cold reptilian gaze on him as he talks swiftly to someone on the other end.  
  
  
  
"Would a fine bred horse be a better solution for sir?" is breathlessly intoned whilst he holds a hand over the speaker on his mobile. At a slight lessening of the grim expression the poor bludgeoned man goes back to arranging it over the phone.  
  
  
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The ride up the wide paved path was pleasant enough, even if the estimation of a 'well bred' horse was a bit of a stretch. Jim smiles to himself at the memory of the animal struggling to get up the incline, it's sides heaving by the time they arrived, but it wasn't winded so he assumes he can ride it back down, or lead it down with a cursing, writhing, John Watson tied to the saddle.  
  
  
Again he has to stave back the rise of a sinister sexual tide in himself as he surveys the area around him. Then the stillness is shattered by the Bee Gees again, "What?!"  
  
  
"I've found where they came out of the water Boss, I have tracks!"  
  
  
"Well now that's good news, how far behind them do you think you are?" his irritation at the slow 'ordinary' man's brain coming out in his impatient tone of voice.  
  
  
"Not certain the tracks disappear around the edge of a rock face in front of me, possibly twenty minutes to get to it, then I don't know what's beyond it, or how much back tracking the trail does."  
  
  
Glee suffusing him Jim grips the phone as he walks into the shaded maw of the cave, "Fine, be quick about it and I mean run you thick witted pleb! I'm going to look in the cave, find a place to strike at John from. You drive him to me, understood?"  
  
  
"Yes Boss... But..." Rob's voice is heavy in trepidation as he finally looses the nerve to question Moriarty.  
  
  
"Yes, yes, I know that silly girl was your target, but you've moved up in the world. I don't care about her, or Randal's obsession with marrying a girl he's been perving over since she was a teen!" With that he disconnects the call and shoves the phone in a pocket. With an irritated hiss at the smudges of dirt on his clothes Jim spares a glare for the dusty horse and heads further into the depths of the cave.  
  
  
In the jet on the way here Jim had looked up the cavern and found the most likely spots to ambush John. He knew he'd have to go off the trail, with a sigh Jim realises he might even have to get wet. But capturing John would make ruining a 'Westwood' suit worth it so he quickly moves to secrete himself and lie in wait.  
  
  
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John has a hand lightly on Mary's face, just a finger resting on her lips reminding her not to move, or even breathe too loudly. Once he heard Moriarty on his mobile John realised the plan, Moriarty wanted to drive them both into a trap in the cave. Well, this time Jon intended to be the spider in the trap waiting for his prey and to beat Jim to it.  
  
  
He waits motionless as Jim draws closer and closer to him. Stifling even his breathing, John watches as the man he hates the most in the world passes within inches of him without noticing. His blood running hot with anger he levers himself off the base of the formation known as the Mantle of Zeus. Using his legs to power the move John aims himself at the middle of Jim's back. He is delighted to knock a shocked, "Urk!" out of his target, though that seems to be where the shock ends as Jim revolves under the momentum to the ground growling and hissing like a wild thing. His patented gleeful rictus  and dead eyed expression on his face, "Oh John, I have been waiting simply ye-a-rs to get you under me again." His lilting cold voice pouring into John like a poison, "Course your over me right now, I can use this to my advantage I'm sure." followed up by bucking his engorged groin up into John.  
  
  
His hands breaking out in a cold sweat, John can feel the memories of his violation rushing up to drown him and pull him under, when Moriarty make a fatal mistake.  
  
  
"It's much like how I had your dear sister, though she was tied in position and she didn't talk much at the end." His smile turning John's stomach, "Have to give it to you Watsons, her last words were telling you to flee, run, run as far as you could! Even the last gurgles sounded like your name, what do you want to bet your last words are? Do you want to bet? Will they be about him? Will you say something pathetic that he wouldn't even dane to acknowledge?" His tone becoming syrupy sweet and fake, "Will you say you love him?"  
  
  
  
John feels a white hot rage uncoiling in his chest. His hands become hard as iron as even as his vision whites out there's a part of his mind that's chanting, "He can't talk about Sherlock that way, he can't!" It's a voice that sounds suspiciously like Harry.  
  
  
What seems like endless moments later Mary's voice is whispering urgently in his ear, "John, you have to let go and come with me now, John!" He has a vague memory of her saying that a couple times already and with that thought he snaps out of it and looks down at his hands.  
  
  
James Moriarty stares back at him, his visage forever altered by the slightly bulging eyes and the petichiall haemorrhaging, as well the puddle of blood flowing down the pathway toward John's jeans, bits of brain tissue along for the ride.  
  
  
Slowly managing to unlock his grip around the neck John realises his arms ache, 'I strangled and bashed his head in... I wonder which killed him?' Looking to Mary with horror on his face she's shaking her head at him. "It's over John, he can't hurt you again, never again."   
  
  
Calm slowly descends upon John. From Mary's point of view it's like the drops of mineral laden water in this cave, slowly changing everything. After a moment or two kneading there with his hands, still in a strangulation position just in midair, hanging there John comes back to himself.  
  
  
"Well. There. Sorted. Now we need to get off this..." His voice is cut off by the Bee Gees ringing from inside the crumpled coat pocked of the corpse of James Moriarty. Forehead wrinkling in confusion and disgust he none the less reaches in, picks it up and looks.   
  
  
14/09/ 15:37  
Rob: I'm just about in the cavern, have you seen them? Shall I wait somewhere in particular?  
  
  
John cradles the phone in his hand staring at the display, "Fuck."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are you going to do John? Huh?!?


	5. Blind As He Can Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am very, very sorry I left you hanging for more than my usual week, but I was worried about staying true to this AU's BAMF John. Then I realised I had almost a thousand words before it got dicy, so here it is. Just a short chapter to keep you going ;)
> 
> PS-So not mine!

 

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Rob is hovering about having sent his text feeling uneasy, James Moriarty isn't the nicest man to work for, but the pay he got, for being a tracker/sniper, was top shelf and he enjoyed the work. Some of the guys back at the base, well the base he had access to, we're weirded out by his methods, but the Boss seemed to like the personal touches he used. 'Huh, and my mum said being a stalker wouldn't teach me any worthy skills! How wrong she was.'

In his hand the mobile vibrates and he looks down.

14/09/13 15:38Jim: Pray harder, take the left branch of the path down to the lake.

Stuffing the mobile deep in his pocket he hitches his gun up on his shoulder a bit more comfortably pops the catches on his holsters and trots down the path into the cave.

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After scrolling back in the conversation history between Jim and Rob John breathlessly punches out the message and pockets the phone. Mary has slipped back off the track and seems to be peeling something off the wall.

In a guarded whisper, "What are you doing?"

Mary wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, "He's coming down here isn't he? Well we have to hide that puddle of blood somehow. And you better move it if your going to shift the body, or are you leaving it there?"

With a sharp nod John hefts the body off the trail and hides it around the back of the rock formation he had hidden behind himself. Without a second thought for the remains of James Moriarty he goes and helps Mary stripping off the liken to cover the blood pool.

After laying John's campaign blanket down on the blood they scatter the liken about distorting the fact that it is a blanket. "I hadn't thought of the blanket," Mary comments as they secure themselves away again, "but the effect is quite good. Even knowing it's there my eyes slide past it."

John smiles and nods, but then puts a finger to his lips as the crunch of footsteps at the mouth of the cavern reaches them.

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Rob tries to see into the gloom with little success, the sun has moved behind the mountain and soon the cave will be black as pitch. An uneasy fluttering in his belly is shoved aside as excitement on the job. But far in the depths of his mind Rob wonders if Jim shouldn't already be screaming his brand of madness at him, as a result his steps shift from hesitant to urgent and back again. Just as he gets to the fork his mobile buzzes in his pocket.

14/09/13 13:40Jim: Caution idiot, they are on the right fork.

Nodding, Rob's frame, that had been slowly stiffening up from uncertainty, is suddenly loose as he becomes a moving shadow eating up the path.

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John watches the hired gun walk slowly towards them, his eyes on the military grade AX338 sniper rifle on the man's shoulder. In the dimness John can also see a holster on his inner left thigh, low down on his right and another on the crest of his left hip. 'Two blades and a back-up hand gun...' Thinking his plan through carefully John gathers his willpower and waits for Rob to walk by. Once he is almost past them John makes his attack.

Aiming for the middle of the man's back John utilises the off centre angle of attack to drive the man to the ground with a startled vocalisation. Using surprise to his advantage John grabs up the strapping for his scope and the hair at the back of his neck, leaning all his weight forward as he pulls his legs up to pin Rob's arms to his body with his knees. Resting comfortably in Rob's lower back he searches for weapons with his free right hand.

"You can come out now Mary and pick up the rifle." the body under him pitches and rolls, but John sits it easily as he switches hands and clenches his fingers even tighter into Rob's hair. "Now Rob behave, especially as" John reaches back and pulls a long deadly knife from the left hip holster, "I've got your Bowie knife."

Carefully leaning forward again, John tests the tip of the knife on the short hairs at the nape of Rob's neck. "Well you certainly keep the edge keen, don't you now?" Rob stops moving completely, he knows one wrong twitch and the blade will sink into his flesh. Spine or jugular hardly matters the blade is sharp enough to slip him through to death in a blink.

Mary pauses over the rifle, "Is it safe to pick up?"

John laughs humourlessly, "Oh I should think Rob here is a professional, since Jim didn't deal with amateurs. That said, there isn't a round in the chamber is there Rob?" applying pressure upwards forcing the man's cheek into the rough paved path, his chin being forced down into his chest harshly as John roughly shakes the hand embedded in Rob's hair. A high pitched whine escapes the man, "No, no, the rounds are in my shirt pocket."

John, who's free hand was pulling Rob's Glock 19 out of it's holster, reverses his grip on it and releases Rob's hair, quite a few dark strands sticking between his fingers, "Bet your wishing you had kept your regulation haircut, huh Rob?" With that he strikes him sharply on the back of the head knocking him out.


	6. Can You See Me At All?

Mary's hand shakes ever so slightly as she brings the cup of fragrant malotira tea up to her mouth. In the back of her mind there is a voice, driven high and screechy by urgency, that is repeatedly at her about the events of the day, 'For fuck sake, he killed that man right in front of you, now he's got a prisoner? Who is this man, do you even really know who he is?!?'

 

 

 

Closing her eyes she takes a big gulp of scalding tea to force her mind onto a different track, 'He didn't have to help me, he could have just taken me back down the mountain and let this crazy bloke shoot me. No, at great risk to himself and blowing his cover completely, John helped me.' in her minds eye the last few moments of John's struggle with Jim play out in her mind again and her stomach squirms uncomfortably at the sibilant hiss, spewing out horrible words, trying to shake John's confidence and thus his hold.

 

 

 

With a gasp of realisation, Mary slots it all together and she feels terrible it took this long for her to figure it out. That horrible feeling she got while John was explaining why he's on the lamb, that nudged her memory, is back. True one could argue it was a reaction to the traumatic events of the day, but she knows it is not. She's used to applying it to younger people, after all she was a primary school teacher, but that doesn't change the reality. John, then, and in the last moments of Jim's life, was displaying all the symptoms of a sexual assault victim.

 

 

 

She recalls her own words to John, 'He can't hurt you anymore.' At the time she had meant that Jim couldn't keep him and Sherlock apart anymore, but now that squirming sensation in her stomach morphs into a cold ache as she realises it meant so much more to John. As John was most likely raped by Jim, or someone who worked for him, during the torture he endured, for falling in love with Sherlock, the comment was validation of John finally escaping the source of his abuse.

 

 

 

Unbidden tears come to her eyes as she looks over to the man in question, talking in Greek, low, quick and quietly to Petros. The kindly older man who owns the taverna the walks are run out of. Wiping her eyes again she gets a firm grasp on herself and pours another cup of the beautifully refreshing tea. She forces her internal voice silent, Mary knows she is safe with them, maybe she can even help John somehow digest what has happened to him.

 

 

 

That decided she pours two more cups and then excuses herself to see if there is anything left in the kitchen to eat, John has to eat.

 

 

 

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John shakes his head at Petros, he just wasn't getting it, "It doesn't matter who you know Petros, if anyone finds out you helped us, you and yours are dead. I cannot, will not, repay your brother's memory that way."

 

 

 

Petros laughs curtly, "Seriously John, you should know by now you cannot change my mind. I didn't listen last year when you wanted to run off and I'll not start now." Looking him searchingly in his eyes Petros continues, "There is a friend of mine who is knowledgeable about these things. He will take you and I won't know where. I will have no more difficulty than if you left last week. Understood?"

 

 

 

Hanging his head, John thinks over the last hours. How he stripped the suit jacket off the corpse - 'don't think about Jim, he's _dead!' -_ and cut it to ribbons, blindfolding, gagging and binding his prisoner at the ankles, knees, hands (straight jacket style-arms crossed over his midsection, wrists bound with a strip connecting them behind his back), and even another strip holding his upper arms down. How he riffled the corpse for his personal items, pocketing them and then shoving the body deeper into a crevasse.

 

 

 

Then he slung the prisoner over his shoulder and he and Mary walked down the wide path to the taverna and Petros' advice. Seeing not a soul on the way in the late September heat of mid afternoon. Shaking his head wryly John knows when he's beaten, "Very well Petros, get your friend, I will go see what Rob can tell us."

 

 

 

Petros nods and turns away, mobile already out, to call his friend. John notes Mary has disappeared as he slips into the room next door. Pausing just inside the door he waits a moment after closing it for his eyes to adjust. Rob glares up at him full of hate and John chuckles, "Yeah, I know you really don't like me right now. Now I'm going to take off this gag, but I want you to know there is no one in Psychro that will come to your aid, so don't bother screaming."

 

 

 

After a curt nod from his prisoner, with quick economic movements he tugs the rag loose, Rob coughs a bit then, "You know he's going to kill you when he finds us, and he will find us, that I guarantee." 

 

 

 

John leans back away from the tightly bound man, reaches up on the wall and punches the switch for the light, brightness floods the room as John crowds the blinking man. "Do you see this?" gesturing at the dark spatters on his face, "I'm sure as an experienced wet works guy you would know blood spatter when you see it. And the shredded material your tied up in?" John grabs at an exposed label and yanks it free, dangling it in front of Rob's face. "He did love his Westwood, didn't he?"

 

 

 

Instead of being shocked, or frustrated his boss is dead, Rob starts laughing, "You idiot! Now your arse-bandit, gayboy is going to die and you can't do a thing about it." John, just barely keeping his expression clear tugs the gag back into place and leaves the room flicking the light off as he goes.

 

 

 

In the other room Mary is fussing over a tray of food nervously and turns a worried stare to John as he exits the prisoner's room. With a commanding bearing she starts in on John, "I don't care how traumatised you are, your sitting down now and eating. Neither of us have eaten since we broke camp at 600hr, that's over nine hours ago. Sit!"

 

 

 

Smiling bitter-sweetly at how much Mary's whole delivery sounds exactly like it came out of one of John's tirades at Sherlock, begging him to eat during cases, John sits and starts eating. After a moment or two she sits as well, looking at him oddly out of the corner of her eye. Clearly she expected more of a struggle.

 

 

 

"I always had to fight Sherlock to eat, I know how it is to be in your spot, so I'll not put another person through it." They eat quietly for a few moments, then Mary musters the courage to talk, "So what are our plans now, has Petros called the police?"

 

 

 

John stops moving for a moment, then bolts his cup of wine, pours another and bolts it too. Turning to look at Mary he gathers himself, "Mary, I don't think you have enough experience with this type of situation... At this point we cannot contact the authorities about the body, because they will detain us for questioning. Which we cannot wait for, because if we do, Jim's people will find out he's gone and kill Sherlock. I can't let that happen, you understand, I can't!"

 

 

 

Mary nods a growing look of understanding on her face. "So what are we going to do John?" she smiles, just a bit, trying to will the both of them into better spirits. John returns the smile, though his is coloured with melancholy.

 

 

 

"A 'friend' of Petros' acquaintance is going to come and pick-up the three of us and move us to an unknown location. So that, worse case scenario, if someone comes looking for me, or Jim and Petros can't tell them anything, they might let them live." He ignores the stifled sound of shock coming from Mary and continues doggedly "We probably won't have much time to figure out what our next step is going to be and how to take it."

 

 

 

Reaching across the table John grabs up a dusty little bottle of raki and after rinsing out his cup with a swig of water, pours a good amount in. Motions for Mary to do the same, and similarly sets her up, then he sits back, turns towards her and gauges her reactions as he broaches the next topic.

 

 

 

"We don't have the luxury of time, nor can we leave an enemy behind us to contact Moran and give away our plans. To do so would endanger our lives as well as Sherlock's." that said, John downs the strong colourless spirit.

 

 

 

Mary, holding her drink in her hand while staring at John, "What you are telling me is, that man in there is going to have to be killed? After, I don't know, you and this acquaintance of Petros get as much out of him as possible? In cold blood?"

 

 

 

"It might be a necessity, yes. I must get information on who is watching Sherlock in London. Now it is possible that, now the head of the dragon is off he might not hold to his silence as before, with the threat of Moriarty hanging over him." John sighs and rubs his hand over his right cheek where he knows the pattern of blood spatter is. "I don't take this lightly Mary, but if he gets a chance he will kill us, and I don't want that to happen."

 

 

 

Mary, having drunk her raki, is nodding along with John, "I'm sure you will try your hardest to do what's right John, you are a good man." Looking down at her empty plate she silently musters the courage to speak, "I want you to know, that horrible things happening to you, isn't a reflection of you as a person, right?" Nervously she fiddles with her fork, not wanting to meet John's eyes, "Moriarty, so it would seem, was everything my gut instinct said he was and more. But you have survived him John, now all you have to do is get home to your Sherlock safely." 

 

 

 

Having said her piece Mary braves looking at John, who is looking pale and drawn, similar to how he looked, when he withdrew, after killing Moriarty, "How?"

 

 

 

Her heart breaking a bit at the hopeless, desperate sound of his voice, she risks gently laying a hand on his forearm, ignoring the flinch. "I'm a school teacher, I'm trained to see the signs of that kind of abuse. Admittedly I didn't get it right away, mostly because my training is concerned with children and they do have different tells, but it was clear this afternoon."

 

 

 

John growls low in his throat, his face flushing suddenly in shame, "He did have to talk didn't he, how I hate him...hated him."

 

 

 

Suddenly unsure of what she should be doing Mary stands and clears away the dishes and food to give John some time alone. Moments after she leaves there is a knock at the door and Petros appears seconds later with a man of a hight with John, but with markedly Italian features, dark eyes and a curly mop of hair. While John's back takes up a larger proportion of his hight, with the stranger it's all legs. Topped off with a dimpled grin that's up to no good. If he had to guess, John would say the guy is the same age as Sherlock, but there is something about his eyes that belies that.

 

 

 

The wattage of his grin going up as Mary steps back in the room, he none the less steps over and clasps hands with John, shaking heartily. "You must be Ioannes, lovely to meet you after all this time, and the lady who came to climb the mountain. Prego, let us get going! Where we are going is still in the light, but the shadows of the mountains from this side of the plateau will get there in three quarters an hour."

 

 

 

Nodding John goes to collect Rob while Mary collects together their kit. Petros levels a warning look at his friend, then, "I'll just make sure Ioannes didn't forget anything in his room." and he rushes off.

 

 

 

Mary tries smiling at the stranger, uneasy now that she's dabbling in the world of unreported killings in self defence, and frankly if this acquaintance of Petros' is going to help them with that, who's to say he isn't the Italian Moriarty.

 

 

 

"You may call me Julio, if you like, miss." Jumping fairly out of her skin at 'Julio' appearing at her elbow in the scant second she was turned away, Mary stammers a response, "I'm terribly sorry..." but looses the thread as she looks into deep smiling eyes that make her feel like she's being swallowed whole. Flushing she pulls a bit away, at which Julio pouts exaggeratedly at her. 

 

 

 

"My darling, Julio will make sure you never come to harm. That I can guarantee you, my sweet." Rakishly he gathers up her hand and slowly, gently presses a kiss into the palm. Mary sputters as the soft press of lips on her flesh incites fire in her body.

 

 

 

Then suddenly the room is filled with people and Julio is instructing John on where to put Robert in the vehicle and they all pile in, waving goodbye to Petros. Mary presses a kiss to the large Grecian man's face and whispers, "I hope I didn't bring you harm, and I'm very sorry if I did." Petros just smiles and pats her cheek, then turns and walks back into the house to lie down for at least the remaining  hour of the days siesta time.

 

 

 

The four people in the elderly truck careen down the rest of the mountain to cross the plateau. Mary wonders what will happen when they get there.

 

 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness! I thought this would be the tricky chapter, but that's coming up next! Stay tuned in!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Malotira is a herbal tea originating on Crete, it is often called Mountain tea, and it is one of my fondest memories of visiting the island. If I could have, I'd have taken home one of the huge bundles of the herb they sell in the open markets on the island. But sadly it isn't allowed through customs!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Psychro is the name of the village where Petros' taverna is. The people of this village have always tended the alters within the Cradle of Zeus' cave.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> 'Wet works' is the term for the job assassins and torturers do. Generally anything involving the spilling of another person's blood is 'wet work'. However it does not apply to things like bombs or military action, it's more of a personal, one person contract kind of thing.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Arse-bandit and gayboy. I apologise if anyone is offended by these, but, frankly, I don't think Rob would say anything else. He's a rough, nasty, ex-military snipper who likes to 'play' with his kills. He is NOT a nice man and therefor has yucky language. So I say 'sorry', he says 'shove it up your arse!' ;)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Moran. Up until now there has been no mention of Cnl Sebastian Moran, but look for some exciting explanations to Mary when they get on the road after next chapter to explain it. Yes, John knows who he is, yes he's seen him since leaving London, you'll have to wait to find out more.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Raki is a lovely spirit that the Cretans have been making for ever! It is similar in origins to Italian Grappa, (ie steeped in the 'must, left over from the wine making proccess) but (for me at least) much more palatable. Some would argue I've not had good Grappa, but I think I just have a soft spot (sweet memories) for Raki!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Prego is Italian for 'please' as well as a few short phrases like 'don't mention it', or 'after you'. In this case I'm using a lot the former meaning and a little the latter!


	7. Take Your Time, Don't Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the dicy chapter! Phew! Still defo not mine ;)

At the end of their journey across the plateau everyone was aching down to their bones! The road had been rough and inhospitable, not to mention the vehicle! Julio turned to Mary, who was riding in the cab with him, "I am terribly sorry for this beast of a machine dear lady, but it is old enough to not be unusual should it be found. There are literally dozens of them standing about in fields, rusted in place, that one more by morning will not be commented on."

Mary nods dumbly as she watches the ground hurtle by through gaping holes in the floorboards under her feet. Shifting restlessly, trying to find a spot on the bench where her tailbone isn't going to get fractured next time they hit a washout on the road, she watches in horror as another bit of the wagon falls away, revealing more road.

"Are you sure it will last till we get... well wherever it is we're going?"

The very pretty, 'Seriously brain, stay on task!' Italian man smiles at her, dimpled and dripping charm, "Oh it'll get there, no worries about that my dear." Looking over his shoulder quickly, but unwilling to look away from the treacherous track he was following in leu of a road, "Could you be a star and prego check on our companions?"

Twisting around on the bench, trying not to put her foot on the floor, Mary looks into the back. Sackcloth was loosely attached to the sides and end fences surrounding the open bed of the old Dodge. Robert was lying stretched out flat along the length of it and John was leaning up against the right side of the wagon, a wearily balancing his head off his forearm and knees.

Catching his eye she mouths, 'Alright?' to him and he nods back at her and looks again to the prisoner. Slowly and carefully Mary turns back around, placing her feet away from the hole - 'Oh god, another piece is missing!' - and reports.

"They seem fine, the bound man is bouncing around a bit, but my friend is watching him." Julio nods at this, but doesn't respond as he's now navigating a very tricky switchback that almost doesn't have enough room for the length of the vehicle. Mary finds this so spooky she is holding her breath, clutching the edge of the bench in terror until they have gotten around the bend.

Suddenly she can see where they are heading, some hundreds of yards away, above them, she can see nestled in the crook of two of the mountains surrounding the plateau, a broken down Venetian stone windmill. Behind it the stark, clear, dark-blue sky of approaching evening making the natural yellow of the stones used in the mill stand out sharply. Broken off propellers hang dejectedly with scraps of ropes blowing back and forth in the gentle wind. The entire time they make the final accent Mary stares stupefied at the view in front of her, whilst Julio chuckles beside her.

'At least I'll have the view to distract me while they are busy.' she finds herself thinking sarcastically as Julio pulls around to the back of the structure, blocking the view of the wagon from the track or, frankly, anywhere on that side of the mountain.

Sliding slowly to the door she hops off the bench onto the ground clenching her jaw at the jolt of pain that runs up through her body on impact. Going round to the back she helps Julio untie the cloth and removing the gate. John slips off the vehicle and then reaches back to pull Rob closer to them. Mary notes the alarming hue to his skin, "John, I think he'll sick up if we move him now."

"Probably better that way, my dear." Julio smoothly interjects, "That way he'll get the horrible motion sickness out!"

Flickering a look over to John, who's looking consideringly at their 'saviour', Mary realises that John doesn't think the Italian is saying what he means. Shrugging in a 'well go ahead then' manner she turns and walks over to investigate the inside of the stone building.

John swings Rob's legs down to the ground and briskly helps him stand upright. Watching closely for any signs of illness, John is ready when the poor man flushes and then goes a startling pasty white, and crumples to his knees (which John assists so he doesn't fall on his face) retching his guts out in the sparse grass.

Noting his eyes rolling wildly, John thinks to himself, 'Just how much of a 'tommy' is this kid? He's in his early thirties...' Clearing his throat he tries to reassure him, "Your sicking up because you were lying flat in a vehicle. The combination of having your stomach above your head an awful lot, and the vibration confuses your brain as to what is going on. It receives the information from the proprioception receptors and they say you are moving, but also lying still. So when you do move the motion sickness rears up and you retch."

Julio snorts, "Spoken like a doctorly sort, we could have used him a bit anxious my friend."

John shakes his head and supports Rob from the side, "No, he's a clever, money minded sort, with... the body in the caves, he has no payday. Him being mindful of that and a bit thankful to me is more help than his mild panic over sicking up would be." Julio nods smiling, and John gets the feeling he was being tested.

Suppressing irritation at being treated like a 'tommy' himself, John starts moving toward the busted-in doorway in the old mill helping Rob along.

Though the building looks half fallen down around it, the door is solid on it's hinges and doesn't even give a whisper of a squeak when it opens. Inside John sees Mary gaping at the room which features a bed, a small fridge and a radio set-up on a rickety desk. Brusquely Julio shoulders past them and crosses to the desk producing, from a drawer, an old pair of hand cuffs... well almost old manacles really.

Motioning John to follow he crosses over to the foot of the bed and attaches one end of the manacles to the frame of the bed and once Rob is close enough, the other end to his ankle.

Mary takes this as her queue to leave and strides back out the door to watch the long slow sunset from their position, shaded from the ebbing sunlight by the neighbouring mountain she finds a rock, still warm from the mid-day heat and settles down for a long wait in the balmy late Grecian afternoon.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once Rob is connected to the bed John cuts the bonds save the ones attaching Rob's hands. Then John moves away from him drinking some water out of the metal flask he carries with him. Rob wordlessly sits on the edge of the bed with a smirk dancing over his lips. Julio beckons John to the doorway and through it to be out of the range of Rob, "You seem to be confined by oaths friend." Julio starts, "I was given to understand people's lives depend on what you learn from this man."

John regards him with suspicion and nods once stubbornly, "Yes on both accounts, perhaps we should just stick to the third Geneva Convention?"

Julio looks at John for a long time, seemingly measuring his intention of sticking to his word. Seeing the rigid military baring and grim, determined expression, Julio claps him on the shoulder. "Good, excellent! You are very adept at talking around things friend. If this little mission of yours should go badly, come back here. There is definitely a place for you in my circle of friends."

John stares at the man, slack-jawed over his offer, then he gathers himself, "A friend of the family couldn't talk 'straight on', if you catch my meaning, if his life depended on it! Honestly if it did, I think he'd rather die than express an actual need for help!"

Chuckling Julio smiles, "I have known a few persons like that, yes. But how are we going to get the information out of Robert then?" John pulls Moriarty's mobile out of his pocket and looks at the thing for a minute. "I think if I could get this open, I'd find something to use against him, but it's password locked."

"Do you have any clues?" Julio asks looking at the sleek device in John's hand. "Well a few years ago, my partner wrote up something about hacking on a blog, and I'm not unpracticed in hacking. It's the only way I've stayed alive for so long, ahead of Moriarty and his thugs." John turns the phone over in his hand again, "But for now I'll have to act like that friend of mine, who can't talk straight, and see what I can get out of him with vague suggestions."

Julio looks around for Mary nodding, "Right, sound plan. Now if we are being such law abiding men, surely she can come in? I really would rather no one be spotted up here."

John smiles, "Yes, of course, I'll find her."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mary is having a hard time relaxing and enjoying the scenery around her. The worry about what is possibly happening in the mill hanging around her neck like a millstone! The sick worry fluttering in her stomach stops as suddenly as John comes around the corner. Completely unbidden a dazzling smile comes upon her lips as she feels the relief at no longer being alone with her mind imagining up all sorts of horrible things.

John, for his part, is surprised at the effect her smile has on him and unconsciously returns the expression. "We had a little talk, Julio and I, and I made it clear we had to stick to the Geneva Conventions, so he thinks you should come inside. The idea of you staying out here was flawed in the first place, not only could you be seen, but often the imagining of dire acts is often far worse that what actually happens."

Standing up from her rock Mary smile, "Yes, your so right, I was just sitting here trying not to think about it and having a miserable time at it. Let's go see what this guy knows, then."

Smirking at the strength of character Mary seems to have, John wordlessly offers his arm and guides her back to the mill.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once inside John feels something is off. Julio is sitting on the edge of the desk drinking from a metal cup and grinning shark like at Robert; who is radiating fear from his seat on the bed, having pushed himself up against the wall of the mill, his arms straining to press him that bit further into it. Furious John drops Mary's arm and stalks over to Julio, "What the hell did you do?" he hisses.

Julio, not dropping the intimidating look, nor leaving off looking at Rob, laughs lowly. "Not a thing, I just told him about myself, and my favourite drink. I think it rather grossed him out, don't you? Even though he's a stone cold killer, there are things even he wouldn't do..."

Julio trails off and takes another slug from the cup. John watches him carefully as he swallows thickly, as though the contents of the cup are more viscous than usual. 'Right, Julio agreed to the Third Convention, couldn't be too bad. Must have told him some naff thing and spooked the guy, well I do think he's a bit of a 'tommy' might as well use it.'

He catches a subtle wink from Julio and nods barely. Turning away he offers Mary up the chair and pulls out the mobile. "It's funny how much information one can find out on one's employer's mobile, isn't it? Jim has a little file for you on here, bet he has one for each of his active snipers, what do you think it says, hey? What do you think my contacts would do with that information?"

Rob's grey face turns away from Julio and looses a bit more colour, "But, but, how did you get... it's password protected..."

John grins at him just as shark-like as Julio and plays his ace, "Really? It was a doddle, after all I did text you twice." As Rob's face flushes with anger and frustration John laughs humourlessly, "Oh how perfectly 'ordinary' of you, you hadn't even thought of that!"

Everyone can see the flinch at the stress on the word ordinary, but only John knows the inferiority complex Jim Moriarty probably inflicted, using 'ordinary' as a slur for those not as brilliant as the great mind of Jim. Or his own Sherlock for that matter. The man before him has been belittled and treated quite badly by his employer, John wonders for how long.

"Are you going to tell me what I want to know, or should I be calling the 'Ice Man'?"

Rob is almost beside himself at the mention of the 'Ice Man' and starts spitting stuff out. "Look, I don't care what you think I can tell you, cause there isn't anything I can tell you that will call off the attack dogs. Your little gayboy lover is dead as soon as Moran finds out you killed the boss."

"Okay Rob, why don't you tell me what will tip Moran off, surely Jim is often out of touch for a while." John is brought up short by a barking laugh out of the captive, "You have got to be fucking kidding! Ever since Moran came on the scene those two have been inseparable! But you wouldn't know that would you? Moriarty kept you two apart cause he was scared you'd recognise him and realise your decommission was 'arranged'."

John, careful to hide his shock, takes a step toward the prisoner, in a low angry voice, "What the bloody fuck are you talking about?"

Rob, now laughing like a hyena, chokes out between the laughter, "He knew your Sister was a bad one, set her up to fail with Clara. Sent all sorts of pretty tail her way, and then had Cornel Moran shoot you. All that done to draw you in, made Moran pretty jealous. Then there's the matter of your rape, Moran was livid Jim touched you, caused quite the row between them I guess. Hell I heard about it and I was in Belarus at the time!"

Thankfully Rob wasn't paying John any mind, he's so involved in his cackling Rob misses the pained look on John's face as he tries to ignore his darkest trauma being told to more people.

Then inspiration strikes and John brings up the mobile to his face. Taking a deep breath he activates the device and types in 'jonnyluv'. The mobile comes instantly alive in his grasp. Gripping the mobile in his hand tightly he stares at Rob again. Brandishing the unlocked screen at the man, "Tell me how to keep Moran in the dark, or I text 'Ice Man' that I have you in custody."

Coughing harshly on spittle he swallowed in shock mid laugh Rob just stares at the mobile in horror.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, apologies for this chapter taking me so long, I had problems dancing that line of 'stay the fuck away from MY Sherlock' and the hippocratic oath John has sworn as a doctor. Incidentally, that's the oath Julio refers to John having and not wanting to break!
> 
> I love BAMF John and wanted to have him beat the info out of smarmy Rob, but I couldn't. I just know John wouldn't accept the ends justifying the means as an excuse in himself. He'd let Sherlock get away with it, but not himself ;)
> 
> The Geneva Conventions are rules of humanitarian congress during warfare. Specifically the third refers to prisoners and the treatment of them. Wikipedia was my 'Geneva Conv. For Dummies' and here's a pertinent excerpt:
> 
> It describes minimal protections which must be adhered to by all individuals within a signatory's territory during an armed conflict not of an international character (regardless of citizenship or lack thereof): Noncombatants, combatants who have laid down their arms, and combatants who are hors de combat (out of the fight) due to wounds, detention, or any other cause shall in all circumstances be treated humanely, including prohibition of outrages upon personal dignity, in particular humiliating and degrading treatment.
> 
> Referring to someone as a 'tommy' is the British equivalent to being called a 'green' recruit.
> 
> The bit about motion sickness is true! Used to happen to me as a kid, I could read, sit backward, didn't matter I was fine. BUT if I fell asleep and lay down in the back of an estate car, I was doomed! I'd sick up as soon as we got home. I was quite confused the first time, as I didn't feel at all ill!
> 
> The vehicle they ride in is the 1948 Dodge Power Wagon, which is a very common sight on the island of Crete, as Julio says there are literally dozens of them lying about rotting.


	8. You Don't Know What You're Missing

John lets him stare at the home screen of Jim Moriarty's mobile for a few more minutes, then, "Come on Rob, you don't want to get to know the 'Ice Man' personally do you? He's a whole different kind of mean when compared to Jim. Jim was just insane and did what whim came along, especially if it destroyed people's lives, but the 'Ice Man' does anything he deems necessary out of a sense of duty. I find it much more disturbing that, don't you agree?"

 

 

 

Rob's wide, panicked eyes dart from the mobile, to John, then to the Italian. Closing off visibly from them he sighs deeply, "He has to get a phone call or text every twelve hours, and the last one was when? You don't have a bloody chance mate. You'll have to lie, convincingly, directly to his second in command, or else he shoots to kill your boy-toy. "

 

 

 

John flicks quickly through the message history, the last text Jim sent out, other than the ones to Rob and before John jumped him, was a few hours before noon. Selecting the screen name 'mormor' John finds an extremely personal message:

 

 

 

14/09/12 09:04

Jim: Soon I will be done with this and you can stop being so predictably jealous! Everything I have done has been to make him suffer, you have to know that, I couldn't feel anything for him, he's just a tool.

 

 

 

14/09/12 09:05

mormor: Just you remember that. I expect an update soon.

 

 

 

Shuddering at the cold conversation over himself he scrolls through the personal files for this 'mormor' person. John quickly discovers several pictures of a young man who looks an awful lot like Sherlock. Though his expression is less exotic all the 'elements' of Sherlock's face are there, baring the eye colour and riotous curls. Flipping through the images in the file John feels his memories churn and swell. He knows this man. Suddenly he comes to the last image and a sharp stabbing pain in his chest takes his breath away.

 

 

 

Even he has to look closely at the man dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit to see that the curls are too perfect, 'curled artificially,' and the eyes are a ghostly grey-green, 'contacts, my god that's disturbing!' Turning back to Rob, "What is this picture all about?"

 

 

 

Rob smirks, "What that? Jim has been demolishing your fuck-toy's image. I think it's been high profile kidnappings mostly. Got him arrested last time, I think. The little girl screamed her head off when he asked to talk to her. Got that foxy Sargent under DI Lestrade all worked up, I think the Commissioner hauled him in for that. They think your boy's some sick child molester now, given the girl's response..."

 

 

 

Rob's rapid-fire spill of vitriol is halted with the sharp crack of John's fist against his nose. Walking away shaking his hand John tries to blink back the red film of rage that has overcome him. 

 

 

 

Julio calmly wanders over and checks the nose, Rob whines noisily and fusses till Julio places his hands gently around his neck and depresses the carotid artery on both sides of his neck. Before Rob can even get his hands around Julio's wrists he's passed out.

 

 

 

Mary interjects sharply, "Julio, what have you done?!"

 

 

 

This pulls John back from his struggle as his doctor persona takes front and centre. Moving back to Rob's slumped form, still shaking his hand out, John looks him over carefully. Julio is setting the crooked nose and wiping the blood away with a cloth. "Don't worry about him for now my friend, I'm shocked it took you this long before you belted him in the face." 

 

 

 

John hrm's his reply, accepting Julio's explanation as he checks to see fault in it. "You knocked him out so you could check his nose?" Not waiting for a response John continues, "Good choice, I really did a job on it. How did you knock him out so fast?"

 

 

 

Julio lays his hands where he had applied pressure, the outer edge of the thumbs lying directly along the carotid artery, "If you apply pressure here for a few seconds..."

 

 

 

"You fool the body into fainting all on it's own. Clever, I've only ever seen that done from behind as the 'sleeper hold', very interesting." Rob begins to moan and shift about, "Right, I'm going to take this mobile and go sit in the wagon. I don't think I can handle his filth much longer, well, not without chinning him again!" Captain Watson turns sharply, his military persona at the fore now, and marches himself away from the man he wants to abandon the Geneva Conventions for and 'do him in' for telling John about Jim's horrible plots. Anger at not being there to protect Sherlock driving him to the flatbed of the old Dodge wagon.

 

 

 

Scrolling restlessly back through the conversation snippets between the men John comes to two conclusions. One he has a little over a quarter of an hour to decide what 'Jim' is going to say to this sniper and two, that while most people know this 'mormor' is Jim's favourite and second in command, most don't know they are having sex. 

 

 

 

John shivers, his mind conjuring up Jim's voice reading the texts to him, as he tries to get an idea of what to send. Eventually he decides on being as vague as possible:

 

 

 

14/09/12 20:57

Jim: The plebs here are so ordinary it's killing me. Still trying to catch my property, check his military files again. I want all intel sent to my phone last week.

 

 

 

14/09/12 20:58

mormor: I thought you had all that on your phone, was my contact at the airport not satisfactory?

 

 

 

John takes a deep breath, looking up to see Mary walking over to him. "Wasn't there a horse at the caves when we came out with Rob?" Blinking in surprise for a second Mary stops short, "You know what, I'm pretty sure there was a horse just standing there."

 

 

 

Fumbling his own mobile out of his pocket, "Shit!" Quickly he texts Petros:

 

 

 

14/09/12 20:59

Ioannes: There's a horse at the top of the trail, I completely forgot.

 

 

 

Then back to the other conversation:

 

 

 

14/09/12 21:00

Jim: If you call that NAG they sorted out as conveyance to the cave helpful, yes. During which time Jonny slipped by us. Currently following while teaching Robby boy about his errors. Send the files, something happened when I sunk the mobile last time, stupid standard EU power not being standard, and the file is corrupted.

 

 

 

14/09/12 21:01

mormor: Yes, of course Jim. It is true the Greeks are... difficult to motivate from afar. Do I need to send someone?

 

 

 

John stares at the message his blood gone cold for quite a few minutes till his own mobile's alert goes off.

 

 

 

14/09/12 21:03

Petros: Ioannes, your memory fails you, that was the horse your lady climber rode down. I have returned it to it's owner. He is very embarrassed that he allowed the mare to be loaned out. I doubt he'll mention it again.

 

 

 

Grinding his teeth over Petros taking such risks John looks back at Jim's mobile inspiration striking quickly:

 

 

 

14/09/12 21:04

Jim: Don't presume. I'm more than capable of motivating people, just have to know who to kill. Thankfully Robby boy is still capable of pulling a trigger... for now. I'll be in touch.

 

 

 

14/09/12 21:05

mormor: Sorry the sentiment escaped.

 

 

 

Slumping back against the edge of the wagon, John takes a deep breath and smiles at Mary. "I think he believed me, thank god."

 

 

 

14/09/12 21:06

Jim: Keep an eye on that, your not normally so ordinary.

 

 

 

Slipping both the phones in his jacket John sighs again, "Okay, so we have twelve hours now before I have a new chance to screw up." one of the mobiles in his pocket, Jim's he assumes, buzzes as a file transfer is completed. "At least now I'll be able to see what all his organisation knows about me."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

John's brain is absolutely humming, not only does Moriarty's network have information that should be impossible to obtain, but half the time he advanced in the field it was Cornel Moran that put his name forward. 'Bloody hell Rob was right! Moriarty arranged my life and career to suit his needs. No wonder the psychopath was so angry with me. All those years of hard work and I fall in love with Sherlock a couple weeks in? Must have been enraging.'

 

 

 

Snorting disbelievingly at his turn of thoughts John puts all that aside and wonders how he can get back to London to protect Sherlock. It's clear, not only in the files, but his experience that they tracked him till he went totally off the grid in Germany. There's even people in Cypress looking for him so the connection to Crete might come up eventually. They need a few things, false documents for Mary, cash, and a way off the island. Looking up at the young woman who's been quietly watching the sunset, giving him time to think, John marvels at how steadfast she is. 

 

 

 

'Truly, if my heart didn't already belong to Sherlock, I'd be completely taken in by her determination and heart.' John turns away shaking his head at his own thoughts, 'Well, best see what we can do to get off this island.'

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just quick notes on a couple things!
> 
>  
> 
> First off I have to again apologise for the bad behaviour of Rob, his use of the term 'boy-toy' and 'fuck-toy' are calculated to increase one John Hamish Watson's blood pressure. Not something I condone, nor advise, JHW has a notorious right hook ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Now I don't directly ship Mormor, but the idea of Moran avenging Jim seems like a beautifully perverse mirror to Johnlock to me and I cannot resist it. To that end I thought it funny to have Jim put 'mormor' as his contact title for Moran. Couldn't resist really.
> 
>  
> 
> The 'sleeper hold' to anyone who watches modern wrestling is something of old hat. But for those who don't know their WWF'S from their Ultimate Fighter's the 'sleeper hold' is a real method of rendering a foe unconscious quickly. Generally this is done from behind wrapping an arm across the throat making sure the point of your elbow is under the chin. This ensures you apply pressure to the blood flow, NOT the airflow, which is extremely dangerous. It is also true that it takes less than two seconds, because, as John mentioned, it fools the body into thinking your experiencing an episode of high blood pressure and so you faint. Why? Well the body tries to regulate the heart by slowing it and your breathing down, that makes you faint. Human body is neat huh?
> 
>  
> 
> This is in reference to John stalking off before doing Rob any harm. The term 'do someone in' refers to murdering the person in question. Definitely against the Geneva Conventions ;)
> 
>  
> 
> 'Pleb' well there has been a LOT of news surrounding this term in the news here in the UK (ok last October, but still!) so I thought I'd explain a bit. The term plebs referred to the general body of free, land-owning Roman citizens of the Roman Empire. It was comprised of the non-aristocratic class of Rome and consisted of freed people, shopkeepers, crafts people, skilled or unskilled workers, and farmers. This being said, using this word to describe someone IS derogatory and elitist. Two things Jim does in his sleep! 
> 
> The reason why it's been in the news here, is former Chief Whip Andrew Mitchell (who resigned his position due to the rabid behaviour in the press visa vie his family) supposedly called a police officer at the main gate of Downing Street a pleb. Mitchell has always denied using that term, saying he DID curse (said 'I thought you people were supposed to fucking help us') and was sorry he lost his bottle. But refuses the 'pleb' comment that was supposedly supported by a public witness. In December it came out that the person who was listed as the witness was firstly another police officer and secondly not present at the time of comment. The inquisition is still ongoing. 
> 
>  
> 
> The standard EU power not being standard comment John makes, as Jim, is in reference to the fact that in remote locations all over the EU the level of mains power isn't always the same. John is bluffing that the device was harmed by the fluctuation during charging/sinking.
> 
>  
> 
> That's it for this chapter, be back soon-ish, power0girl.


	9. Leave It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here we are with some background for John's journey!

John looks out over the beautiful dark blue water, wishing he could be enjoying the view. But he's far too stressed, and from the looks of it even Mary is having trouble ignoring their plight in leu of the broad expanse of twinkling night sky and the shimmery inky waters.

 

 

 

He thinks over the last four hours and wonders in vain if he made the right choices. The Italian was ready to help, if they continued their anonymity, with what ever they needed. 

 

 

 

They needed cash so Julio took Mary's cards, in a sealed envelope and will have someone else withdraw the money and max out the cards. It IS fraud so the companies will (when and if Mary gets her life back) pay the missing funds essentially giving her the money twice. This person will let Julio know how much the sum is and he will give it them through an associate once they land in Italy.

 

 

 

His best mate has a fishers boat and he isn't overly bothered about them going out to sea in the middle of the night. So they hide away during the day and putter along at night. At a nice leisurely pace they expect the trip to take a couple days.

 

 

Lastly what to do about Rob? Julio recommended he be confined in the mill till John succeeds in returning to London and his mission is completed. He's confident in his set up and the seclusion of the spot. Even IF Rob managed to get loose, he'd have to walk for several hours before he found people, several more till he found English speaking people!

 

 

 

John is the most wary of this detail, after all confining someone by chains in a secluded, crumbling, historical monument is skirting the limits of what John can do as a moral man. But again Julio assures him that Rob won't suffer in his little mill prison and that Julio will have one of his house up there with him at all times, to make sure he has everything he should need.

 

 

 

Still John feels a bit worried about that loose end, as well as the owner of the horse. In his mind they represent a lack of severe control that he hasn't allowed since Harry...

 

 

 

"John?" With a start he realises she has crouched down beside him against the wall of the small awning they hide in during the day. Before he can ask her what she's doing Mary continues on, "Are you okay? Sea-sick? Only you've gone a bit of a funny colour."

 

 

 

Grasping at any excuse so he doesn't have to talk about the horrible things he's seen John lies, "Yes, must be coming on slowly..." But the frowning face looking at him isn't believing him. "That John Watson is the worst lie I've ever heard! Why would you after all this time be sea sick?"

 

 

 

Baffled John retorts, "You suggested the very thing!"

 

 

 

"Yes," Mary admits smugly with a bit of anger, "to see if you'd lie to me or not."

 

 

 

With a groan he let's his head fall against the edge of the boat with a muffled thump. Tentatively Mary lays a hand on his elbow, "John, you've been through a lot lately, maybe.... maybe you need to talk about some of it before it eats you up."

 

 

 

With narrowed eyes, "I don't need therapy."

 

 

 

Smiling Mary nods, "I don't think so either, but if you don't get this off your chest, you will." Not letting him deny it she continues on, "Look, you've saved my life, what? two, three times? Let me do something for you please. Just tell me about your life on the run, I'm sure there are plenty of stories there and I'm happy to listen to any of them." Her hand gripping surprisingly tightly for a second, "Let me help you John." 

 

 

 

Hanging his head a moment he thinks, she's right, and John knows it. The memories are dragging him down with worry that they are affecting his decisions adding it's own brand of pain. So after a few quiet minutes of studying the boards in the side of the craft John raises his eyes to Mary. The clear pain in the muddy blue eyes - almost black in this light - making her stomach clench. "Harry and I took the Eurostar to Paris. She was a funny one... my lesbian sister, didn't notice there was something more between me and Sherlock. As we pulled out of St. Pancras station I was trying not to die inside and she's saying, 'he was just a flatmate'. But I dare say she figured out her brother out eventually."

 

 

 

Nodding encouragingly Mary remains silent so as to not jinxs her luck in getting John to talk.

 

 

 

"We tried to be so clever, Harry thought it would be enough to get on and off the Eurostar a couple times, lay a few false trails out to Cornwall and Wales with tickets, even one to the Netherlands from the Lille station in France. So by the time we got to Paris our fear was ratcheted down a touch." Shaking his head ruefully, "We took a room at a small hotel well away from the normal tourist traps and my sister seemed to believe we were invincible. Now I know she had no concept of how horrible Moriarty truly was, or how far reaching he could be!"

 

 

 

"After three days of hiding out in our hotel room she succeeded in convincing me no one would notice us in the large group of tourists that is always at the Eiffel tower. Stupid mistake, I know, but my sister always could talk me into stupid stuff. We were half way across the lawns to the tower when I saw two different men shadowing us. Needless to say we left, but it didn't matter."

 

 

 

"What followed was the oddest car chase I've ever seen. On one hand thankfully they weren't brandishing guns, but on the other, if they had been maybe the cabbie would have been less inclined to slow down three times and offer to let either of them them take us!"

 

 

 

Chuckling a bit at the memory, "Now my Parisian French isn't great, but I understand a fair amount and in the end I heard, over the radio, that the cabbie ditched our tails, dropping us at our hotel, because he got a fare out to the airport and was needed there ASAP before another driver could scoop it."

 

 

 

"When we got into our room I logged onto the internet, doing as Anthea suggested and hiding my electronic footprints well, laying a false trail all over the globe to check my email address. There was only one message in the inbox, a video file. I didn't think much of it and opened it without realising Harry was still roaming about as her tub hadn't finished filling yet. So she was walking past just as the viewing window opened up."

 

 

 

Looking a bit green as he starts talking about it John carries on determinedly, "At first all I could see was Moriarty's face that looked perversely open and friendly. But the words falling from his lips were anything but, describing my... rape and his clear enjoyment of it. So drawn in by the horrible memories he was invoking I didn't realise Harry was there till she cursed quietly..."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

"Oh fuck Jonny he's wanking! What a sick fuck."

 

 

 

Blinking himself out of the odd stupor the malevolent words were having on him, John notes that Moriarty's left arm is jerking in an all too familiar way. With perfect timing the person filming pulls the view back to reveal more of him. He's relaxed back in one of those huge wingback chairs, his right knee hitched over the armrest, hand working feverishly in the gap of his trousers. Clearly Moriarty has only undone his expensive trousers and shifted them down a bit to gain access to his cock, and pants were clearly an option that morning. John blinks as he realises that Moriarty is dressed the same as the day he was raped. In the exact same suit and he just undid his zip then too and... A fine tremor runs through John as he realises Moriarty is purposely re-creating his rape to traumatise John again.

 

 

 

"Oh my god Jonny, is that shit he's spouting true? Did he... did he do half of what he's saying?" Her hand hesitantly touching his shoulder, never the less John jerks in shock and relived trauma at the light contact. "Oh Jonny, why didn't you tell me? I thought he just beat the hell out of you."

 

 

 

John frowns as he tries to avoid the piercing gaze of the man wanking to the remembrances of John's rape. Thankfully Moriarty seems to have gotten himself all worked up and it isn't long before the wanking, and the vitriol stop with heaving, panted breaths.

 

 

 

With a shudder John reaches to close the window, but the man on the screen suddenly opens his eyes and looks at John. "Now, now, little rabbit, look at the attachment and run. Run! Rabbit! Run'"

 


	10. Lends You A Hand

 

Smiling bitterly up at Mary John carries on,"Then, just to spite him, I didn't look at the attachment. Well that and I had to deal with Harry glaring holes in the side of my head. So I closed the machine down and..."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Turning to engage his sister's venomous expression John tries to figure out how to answer her questions. Sighing deeply he rubs a hand over his eyes and down over his mouth; as though trying to rub off the humiliation coursing through him. Not baring to hold eye contact John fiddles with the cuff of his shirt as he tries to answer.

 

 

 

"I'm sorry, but when you didn't guess right away I was happy, like I might be able to keep from loosing face in front of one more person. It was bad enough that Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson all knew; I was so happy I had someone in my life who wouldn't know what depraved things Moriarty did to me! I hate the fact that it felt like they were all waiting for me to fall apart. I'm just a victim to them now."

 

 

 

Instantly Harry's demeanour changes, her eyes softening a bit, but the glint in her eyes remains, "Jonny, let's get this straight right now," gesturing fiercely with her right hand, enumerating her points, she launches into it, "I couldn't think less of you, because I know who you are, better than any of them! Nor will I be waiting for you to fall apart because I know what your made of; military grade John Hamish Watson. I think your doing your friends a disservice there, none of them is thick little brother. Lastly, I will not treat you like a victim, or feel badly for you because it happened, you knew the man you were working for (better even than I did, I think)." Pointing at him suddenly with the other hand, "but Jonny I am furious and if I get a chance for revenge I will kill him for touching you."

 

 

 

Stifling an inappropriate chuckle at his sister's protectiveness, "Okay Harry, you and I will someday have our pound of flesh." He offers up his hand to seal the deal and they shake firmly.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

"That was it then, she knew my deepest secret and now so do you. Knowledge I had hoped to keep anyone else from discovering and yet it follows my every move, like a sign around my neck." Waving a hand away from himself, as if to wave the issue away, John sighs, "So it was a couple days before I remembered the warning." 

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Pursing his lips in irritation at himself John opens his email again and checks the attachment to the video. This time he waited till his sister was in the tub, the lights dimmed, with some light music playing to relax her. The two of them haven't been out of the hotel much and cabin fever had begun to set in.

 

 

 

Allowing himself to wince, closing his left eye and tilting his head slightly away, John mentally prepares himself for the worst as he taps on the attachment to the email from Moriarty. What opens up surprises him more than the video humiliated him. An electronic booking for two first class tickets from Paris to Cologne stares back at him. Cursing at the screen John scribbles off a note about going to Gare du Nord station. Praying Harry listens to his advice and stays in the room, John dashes off down the hallway.

 

 

 

An hour later John is about to rip his hair out, the man behind the divider changing the tickets is now lecturing him on changing his mind twice in their conversation.

 

 

 

 

"Monsieur?! Do you not understand every time I begin to change this and you change your mind again you accrue a changing charge? You comprehend this, non?"

 

 

 

John does his level best to smile and quip back, "But what's the good of exploring if your tied into a schedule?"

 

 

 

"But of course, Monsieurur. Right away... But perhaps buying on the day of travel is more your, well..." The posh well turned out man gives John a careful look, scanning head to toes. Then with a light toss of one shoulder, "your style seems a bit 'on the go', maybe cashing this in and just buying on the day would be best. Any pre-booking savings you'd have you've obliterated with these changes!"

 

 

 

 

John tries to smother the giggles, that threaten to make him laugh in the man's face, "Can I do that? My Uncle bought the ticket for me, so it would have to be cash..."

 

 

 

Shaking his head the Frenchman starts typing and muttering in French under his breath. Moments later he counts out just under three hundred and fifty Euros onto the counter and pushes them through to John. "Bonne chance Monsieur!"

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

"Needless to say Harry was very put out that I went alone, but it being done we packed our bags and left the next day taking an erratic rout to Italy via coach buses." John goes quiet for a moment, staring out into the inky black sky. 

 

 

 

"John?" Mary's voice tipping up in a quizzical tone at the end, "you don't have to tell it all to me tonight, right? Here have some bread and cheese."

 

 

 

John takes the food, but shakes his head no, "I want to get it out, as much at once as possible so we can get past this horrendous conversation. Then maybe I can think about something else for once, you know what I mean?" Mary nods wordlessly. "Alright then, when we got to Toulouse I risked looking at my email again, god I should have known better. As soon as I touched my inbox some nasty virus opened up another video from Moriarty."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

A cold shudder runs through John as he sees those dark, glassy eyes staring out at him. For a few moments he's frozen there looking into the smirking countenance of Jim Moriarty, then his ears register more sounds. Off camera there is a rustling, clinking sound that immediately has John shifting forward in his seat, 'Oh god, Sherlock!' flits through his mind as he recognises the sound.

 

 

 

Moriarty chuckles, the hollow, faked tonality of it unnerving John even more, "I can almost see you worrying about who I have here with me, no worries now, it's no one you know." The camera pans slowly back till a good portion of Moriarty is exposed and the left shoulder of someone is clear in the frame. "But maybe it's someone you recognise Jonny?" 

 

 

 

Narrowing his eyes, John tries to see something define-able about the person struggling in chains. Almost immediately he breathes a huge sigh of relief as he recognises that the shoulder in question could not - ever - belong to Sherlock. It is by far too thickly muscled and doesn't have a low enough body to fat ratio. 

 

 

 

One sentence jumps out at John, from the narrative of sick things Moriarty is saying, "I do regret not taking my time with you Jonny, but really I know I was too angry to be able to leave you alive at the end, if I did. So this should compensate for that missed opportunity."

 

 

 

John feels an almost physical sinking sensation in his stomach, as his ears buzz slightly, 'Oh god, he can't mean...' Unable to even voice it in his thoughts John watches, the sinking sensation escalating to a lurching feeling, as he realises the reason he hadn't recognised the shoulder in frame. There is no modified starburst of scar tissue. The camera pans back a bit more and the back of a familiar looking greying dirty blond head comes into view, as well as a copy the former soldier's upper body straining in chains at Moriarty's feet.

 

 

 

"Just think of him as your stand in John."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a short chapter with another cliffy, just thought you'd like it now as 3pm today marks both the beginning of Half Term and the Invasion Of The In-laws, so for the next week and a half I am both be-childrened and be-guested, so I doubt there will be lots of opportunity to write! Can't you just see it, "What have you been Writing there dear?" "Oh... Porn, well really, just now, a rape scene, in a slash fic, about a soldier who's gone MIA." 
> 
>  
> 
> I think she'd be bullying my partner into suing for custody of the kids in ten minutes or less don't you? ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Not many actual notes, except 'Bonne chance' is French for good luck. That was one of the scenes I giggled over writing because I have the Frenchman's exact look and mannerisms in my head. I can even hear his voice clear as a bell! My last two read throughs are out loud and when I read that bit I modify the spelling to fit a French accent, like 'this' being 'dis' instead. But I didn't want to loose clarity for humours sake, so I didn't write it out that way.  


	11. In His Nowhere Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, in this chapter there are a few warnings, which will be happening more often as we get through the meat of why John went to ground! I try to not dwell so much on gory detail, but some detail is necessary to pull you into John's world.
> 
>  
> 
> So here's the warnings: flash backs to violence, oral rape and a personalised snuff film. If any of that is a trigger for you, you have been warned.

 

John stares at the screen, his stomach clenching and seeming to want to come up the back of his throat as he watches, motionless with fear, like a rabbit in the headlamps. The pain in his stomach expanding to include his chest as he watches Moriarty debase the man chained to the ground at his feet.

 

 

 

Long ago the man stopped struggling, after his face was beaten to an unrecognisable mass, and a few of his teeth lay scattered on the floor, he stopped begging Moriarty to free him, stopped even begging to die. He just knelt there propped up by Moriarty's fists in his hair as the mad man shoved his cock in and out of the broken gaping orifice the poor soul once referred to as his mouth.

 

 

 

Clutching the waste bin to his chest John feels another wretch come on as he hears the horrifyingly familiar cadence of Moriarty's release beginning. Somewhere in the middle it suddenly gets wilder and more expressive than John recalls, as Moriarty shudders and thrusts through his climax. John remains frozen, horror and worry abundant over what would constitute 'another level' of sexual enjoyment to a rapist.

 

 

 

As Moriarty gasps and whines through the end stages of his orgasm the camera clues John in. Very slowly it pans down to the still figure Moriarty has released to lie in a awkwardly slumped position. Slowly it focuses in on the chest and the impossible way one shoulder is folded under the rest of the collapsed body. A fine tremor begins to run through John as he waits to see movement, 'God in that position I should be able to see the lungs expanding extensively, to bring in great gasps of breath, especially after the way he was being gagged.'

 

 

 

Long moments pass, then a lilting cold laughter that's almost giggling fills the room. "Oh shit! I think I got a bit carried away there Jonny. So glad I didn't do this with you for real, look at all the fun I'd miss out on chasing you around Europe!"

 

 

 

John gags and wretches again into the waste bin to the sound track of Moriarty's laughter.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Mary looks at him, her eyes wide and staring, "Good god John, you mean to tell me that poor man died?"

 

 

 

Nodding slowly, "Another ex-military bloke pinched to replace me. The poor sod was in the wrong place at the wrong time. His blood is on my hands now too and even though I've cut the head off the hydra, Moran is just as deadly, not to mention unhinged!" John furiously dry washes his hands and stares out at the rolling water. A long moment draws over them as Mary tries to absorb the horrific story.

 

 

 

Turning to him suddenly with curious eyes, "You haven't told me much about Moran, okay Rob talked about him, but I definitely don't trust his judgement!" John snorts a wry agreement, "Why are you so certain he's as bad as Moriarty was?"

 

 

 

John shrugs his good shoulder once, "Besides the certainty that someone who is willing to besmirch another's reputation by kidnapping children in disguise, then framing them for the kidnapping, let alone enjoy working for Moriarty, that person has to be unhinged. But who do you suppose was filming all the videos?"

 

 

 

Watching the information trickle through Mary's expression, slowly gathering speed as facts are becoming clearer to her, John sighs, "It would have to be someone he knows very well, that he shares intimacy with already, or the videos wouldn't have been so clear cut and professional. Moran is the only one I can think of that could fill such a gap."

 

 

 

Mary looks toward the horizon, blindly taking in the view to give herself time to think, "Certainly makes sense... so he's most likely a crazy nutter and he's got cross hairs on your boyfriend. What are we going to do about that?"

 

 

 

John smiles shortly, "Well we will move like fucking shadows and get to London before he knows what's going on. Then we'll make sure he can't do anything to anyone else."

 

 

 

"Okay... Sounds a touch vague, but a work in progress I guess. We get to Italy, then we get the money - as long as we haven't been duped by that slick Julio - what do we do then? How do we move unseen?" 

 

 

 

John shrugs, "We walk, cross country, as much as we can. Only take public transport from small centres and most importantly, avoid CCTV. It's not perfect, there are places we'll have to travel around, but it is possible to do."

 

 

 

Mary playfully fakes a dramatic flinch, "Why do I have the feeling my feet are going to be worn right off before this is over?"

 

 

 

John pushes the comment off with a casual flick of his wrist, "No worries, we'll get you a pair of proper German hiking sandals and your feet will be fine!" Further comment is cut short by his mobile alarm going off. "Shit one hour to text Moran in, what the hell do I say?"

 

 

 

Mary watches speculatively as John slowly pulls out Moriarty's mobile delaying the inevitable by as many seconds as he can. "John?" her eyes widening a fraction, "last time you texted him, he was a bit surely and informal. Do you think Moriarty would let him get away with that."

 

 

 

With a deep in and out breath John nods a touch, "Your right, Moriarty would never let it stand, I just get so uncomfortable trying to think like that... like him, that I..." A fine tremble makes its way through John's frame as he tries to force his mind away from Jim Moriarty. Mary gives a tight smile, trying to be as supportive as she can.

 

 

 

"So you just make it a bit cold, and tell him your almost done figuring out where you, John, has gone. That aught to set him straight, as well as show him his place."

 

 

 

John looks intently at the dead man's mobile, "That's a very astute suggestion Mary, I think I'll do just that."

 

 

 

15/09/12 08:18

Jim: Things are going just about as expected. Fortunately Rob, though stupid, can still manage to focus long enough to shoot. There's at least three trails for Watson, I have a feeling at least one is a false trail they made up to appease me. Going to spend a day making sure of the validity of the intel. I love testing the validity of the intel.

 

 

 

It was only a few moments later when the mobile chimed.

 

 

 

15/09/12 08:19

mormor: I know you do. Enjoy.... just not too long.

 

 

 

Suppressing a shudder John replies,

 

 

 

15/09/12 08:20

Jim: Forget telling me what to do, you watch the boarders, he's slipped us before.

 

 

 

15/09/12 08:20

mormor: Of course Jim.

 

 

 

John breathes deeply and slowly a couple times, "Looks like we bought ourselves another half day."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long I had family visiting over half term and got NOTHING done. Anyways, short chapter, more soon.
> 
> Ta


	12. For Nobody

Sherlock surveys the dim grey-washed walls surrounding him, 'When did the walls of my 'mind palace' become as boring and tedious as the real world?' Something jars his mind out of the back rooms and he finally looks at Lestrade, "What useless thing are you going on about now?"

 

 

 

Fighting his natural inclination to throttle Sherlock, Lestrade starts over at the beginning, for a third time. "I just wanted to ask if you were sure about the case. You have been very distracted lately and I was wondering if you re-thought your conclusions any?"

 

 

 

Levelling his best narrow-eyed, 'how thick are you' expression at the poor DI, Sherlock launches into his explanation, "There were markings on her upper back consistent with being dragged before being redressed so I tested some of the samples for pollen and earth composition, this easily gave me an area. Then I just had to... Why are you staring at me?"

 

 

 

Lestrade throws his hands up in frustration, "You idiot, you didn't tell us you got samples off the victim, I thought you were just going off on a tangent again!"

 

 

 

Sherlock shrugs, not bothering to mention Molly was the one who did the actual collecting, "I'm sorry but you don't have an advanced thinker in the whole lot of the Met. That is not my fault!" 

 

 

 

"Of course it's your fault!" Lestrade snipes back, "You need to tell me when you do stuff like this Sherlock. I need to know! You know I can't keep covering up for you whenever you break the chain of evidence. I'm not going to let you ruin my life, like your doing to yours!"

 

 

 

Instantly the air between them seems colder as Sherlock's eyes, flashing with an inner fire, narrow again, focusing in on Lestrade. "I'm terribly sorry if my blatant agony throws you off when your fucking my brother. Oh no, wait, it wouldn't, not at all. You see your dalliance with my brother as getting even with your wife! Or have we advanced beyond that by now?"

 

 

 

His fist clenched and cocked before he knows it, Lestrade sees a flicker of gratitude on Sherlock's gaunt face before he closes his eyes. Almost on its own the fist lowers and loosens, confusion over Sherlock's expression rife, "Look mate, I don't harass you about not eating, or living off energy drinks and I don't constantly ask you how you bloody feel, even after all these years. Don't you think you could offer me the same curtsey?"

 

 

 

Restlessly he rubs a hand over his face and into his hair, tufts sticking every which way after its passage, "I", Lestrade's voice cracks, he swallows and starts again in a softer tone, "I don't mind when you go on a tear about my staff, that's 'work', but don't talk about my private life as a way to hurt me. Understood?"

 

 

 

Sherlock, who's been fiddling with his phone restlessly, looks up at Lestrade, for the first time since closing his eyes and Lestrade has to stifle the urge to gasp. Sherlock's eyes are round and staring, seemingly, right through the DI, almost colourless and somehow appearing hard, reflecting his inner turmoil back at Lestrade. Sherlock tilts his chin up a touch in a classic defensive motion, but wearing that expression it looks more like a desperate motion. "It was three years ago today Greg."

 

 

 

 

Lestrade blinks in confusion, firstly at the sudden use of his first name, secondly because  they all had the anniversary of John's leaving circled on their calendar every year and it is a couple weeks yet. "What do you mean today? I thought..."

 

 

 

Sherlock nods, "Yes it is still some time before that day. It was three years ago today that we first made love." Sherlock's voice cracks and wavers a bit at the end, forcing him to turn away. Leaving Lestrade both relieved he's turned that torn, aching, painful expression away from him, but also worried because he doesn't know what could possibly be worse.

 

 

 

"God Sherlock." Abortively putting a hand on his shoulder twice before actually settling it there and giving him a reassuring squeeze. Lestrade stays there for a drawn out moment, "What do you want me to do?"

 

 

 

The shoulder under his hand is surprisingly lax, shrugging slightly, "I want to be alone, but I shouldn't be... I suppose."

 

 

 

Lestrade pulls away from the distraught man, "Well then, how about I give you a few, in my office, to pull yourself together and then I'll give you a ride back to 221. Maybe we could visit Mrs. Hudson, I haven't seen her in ages." Pausing with his hand on the door he waits for Sherlock to respond.

 

 

 

Eventually, his voice, deeper than usual - slightly breathless, as though there's no energy behind it - offers up a meek, "I think that might be best."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Quietly closing his office door Lestrade has his mobile out and is dialling Mycroft before the latch catches. It rings through to his answering service, "Myc, call me ASAP, it's a danger night."

 

Then in the next breath he calls Mrs. Hudson, who answers on the fourth ring, 

 

 

 

"Hello Mrs. Hudson? Greg Lestrade calling."

 

 

 

"Oh hello dear, what can I do for you today?"

 

 

 

Shuffling his feet a bit on the lino, "I have a bit of bad news I'm afraid, tonight's a danger night for Sherlock. Are you in this afternoon?"

 

 

 

"Oh dear me, well I was going to nip out to the shops later on, but nothing that can't be shifted, poor dear. I thought the big day was..."

 

 

 

Turning and staring at his office door trying to avoid making his embarrassment obvious he responds, "Yes, apparently today marks the first intimate moment for them."

 

 

 

"Oh. Oh, I see. Well best get him over here and call that brother of his."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

The next morning as Sherlock wanders through the sitting room of 221B he takes stock in how his life has changed. Lestrade has taken up Sherlock's usual spot in an untidy sprawl on the sofa, while Mycroft is quietly sitting in the armchair across from John's flipping through some papers from the case at his feet.

 

 

 

 

Three years ago this would never have happened, never would he have allowed it. Grudgingly he'd allowed Lestrade to stay over in his flat before, especially when he was getting clean, but to have his brother there, that was odd. Odder still was that he seemed, at least, a bit comfortable there. 

 

 

 

Most of the rest of the world around Sherlock has all faded away without John. He can't even remember the last time he argued with Donavon or Anderson, they're just static around him that he tunes out now. But a few have cleaved to him, not letting him melt away, and the connection to them is something Sherlock is, on this morning, suddenly shocked to realise. 

 

 

 

Not looking up from his papers Mycroft addresses his little brother in a whisper, "Are you ready?"

 

 

 

Trying not to let the superior attitude and vague discourse destroy the close familial feelings he had just discovered Sherlock metaphorically bites his tongue and answers back in a whisper, "Ready for what?"

 

 

 

Without a word his brother stands and walks toward Sherlock's room, sparing a glance to make sure Lestrade is still sleeping. Irritated at Mycroft's heavy handed ness Sherlock feels that elusive family bond pulling a bit. 

 

 

 

Once the door is shut Mycroft gestures to his brother to sit down and perches himself on the foot of the bed. Momentarily amused by the memory of his brother, doing just this, getting ready to read him a story or tuck him in, softens his irritation and Sherlock sinks slowly to sit facing Mycroft.

 

 

 

"I once told you caring was not an advantage and in a lot of ways I still hold to this edict. Caring for John and having him so ruthlessly removed from your life has not been an advantage. But I see now applications where the opposite is true, as an example, I care for the well being of my younger brother, no matter how it irks him. I will do anything, at all, to make his world right again. Caring gives me added incentive in this case."

 

 

 

Sherlock blinks at his brother, but does not speak (possible due to shock) eventually Mycroft keeps talking.

 

 

 

"I have not been idle over the last, nearly, three years and we have tracked a fair number of Moriarty's accomplices. The man himself is still a ghost, but there has been a flurry of movement in his network of late and I thought you would be interested to know about it."

 

 

 

Swallowing the sick crawling feeling in the back of his throat Sherlock ventures, "Is like the last time when..." 

 

 

 

Mycroft speaks over him quickly and absently, if a bit superstitiously, reaching out to touch the wooden footboard of the bed, "No, not like that, but there was some hubbub surrounding a young lady Moriarty is tracking for a business associate. More people called in to consult than one would think necessary for a primary school teacher. For all we know Moriarty himself could have gone."

 

 

 

Sherlock's face, having gone pale as Mycroft spoke, comes up with an excited flush, his eyes darting back and forth as he covers the information he knows of Moriarty's people. 

 

 

 

The school teacher had been engaged to a ruthless man, a one Rand Savage, and ran. The contract killer they 'flipped', four months ago, told them as much. She seemed to think she'd slipped the noose, as it were, but Moriarty has a man on her 2-4-7. Yet she has no idea she's being followed, or is she's playing a really long game? 

 

 

 

Sherlock's mind filters down all the possibilities and then queries, "Are you, very thinly, suggesting she may be with John?"

 

 

 

Smiling in his usual, butter won't melt in my mouth manner, "I assure you I have no idea whom she is with... But the evidence does rather lend itself to that thought, doesn't it?"

 

 

 

Sherlock sits there motionless, riffling his 'mind palace' for another solution, as his brother stands and leaves the room, his mind spinning out all the possibilities in a fog of euphoria, it stalls on one final thought emblazoned onto the walls of the great front hall in the 'palace' in yellow zinc spray paint, 'John is still alive!'

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! So I was waiting for some translation work on the next chapter (which was supposed to be THIS chapter, but my Latin translator had a four day thing!) and chatting with my good friend junejuluy when I asked 'should I do a chapter on Sherlock? While we wait? I was toying with the idea of not covering Sherlock till John gets to London (whoops spoiler ;)) she encouraged me to do so, so here we are!
> 
>  
> 
> I don't think there is anything that needs any extra explination... Well maybe how OOC Sherlock is being, but honestly if he had stayed as distant and removed as he is post falling in love with John, he'd have curled up in a ball and killed himself ages ago!
> 
>  
> 
> Anything else, PM me!
> 
> Ta


	13. Please Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a mention or two before we dive in! A huge thank you to my RL best mate for the Latin translation, she fussed and worried and thought it over A LOT. Secondly to my AO3 pal Nim who did all the Italian translations, though she was quick to say she's a northerner and might have a different dialect ;)
> 
> Lastly, JJ? Your wish is my comand... This time, here you go, spent my whole kid free day on this to get it out the door. Enjoy.

After a long hot day hidden away in the awning contraption that shelters the fisher's catch and bait, John begins to wonder if he could actually develop delayed onset sea sickness. Though the analytical doctor part of his mind tells him it's just a product of being in close quarters with half alive fish, bait and being wedged into a tiny space along the edge of the container, holding the same position, motionless for hours on end. He knows the shear monotony of it all has lulled him into sleep a couple of times, just as he can hear the half snore of Mary sleeping lying along the other side of the container, John begins to worry about what woke him.

Rocking his head ever so slightly forward John is forced to bite hard into his lip to stop the grunt of pain from coming out. Seconds later he is very happy he was successful.

"Cur huc venisti?"

Some random shuffling of feet and the sound of cloth rustling comes to John, "Dominus iussit mini eos in Italiam conferendus esse. Credis me kudos facere, ludibundus greges transportare? "

"Cur iterem adsuetum non facisti?"

"Dominus dixit quod aliquis eos quaerabat; ergo mihi necesse erat magna cum discretione venire, quasi cellam implendus."

"Aisne? Quis eos quaerit?"

"Non scio. Fortasse britannicus."

"Nonne Iceman?"

"Immo, dominus dixit quod Iceman quasi socium discutebant."

"Ita. Nunc mutatrum facemus. Di immortales! Libera eos a cellula cobionis. Vix capax est cani!"

Moments later the cloth hanging over the doorway is yanked aside and in halting English the fisherman beckons John and Mary out. "It is fine, bit warm, but you come out, yes?" With the sound of a choked off snort Mary starts awake moaning as her stiff limbs shift about of their own accord.

John works slowly till he is on his knees looking into the man's face. There are no signs of worry, or urgency in his face, nor is his baring rigid at all, if anything the relaxed set of his eyes and jaw tell John he's happy to have their visitor. "Good, we are coming out." at this the fisherman smiles and ducks out the door again.

Turning toward the direction of the soft moans, "Mary, do you think you can stand?" First there is a slightly louder moan, then, "Yes, bloody hell, don't know how, I feel like my bones are fused! But I'll do it." John smirks and levers himself upwards and out the doorway at the same time to give her access to both the room to manoeuvre and the way out.

The first thing he sees is a bloke dressed in a uniform of some kind, an Italian port Captain he supposes, and behind him the moored up speed boat that he arrived on. It must have been the motor sounds coming close then stopping instead of fading away that woke John. The bloke himself doesn't look particularly surprised to see John's not some foreign youth working the boats to finance traveling the globe. Though an eyebrow does raise at the sight of Mary climbing out of the hatch.

What follows is very confusing as the new comer turns to their fisherman and bites off a quick comment John's certain isn't quite in Italian. The fisherman's face darkens as he growls back and John realises they are speaking in ancient Latin.

"Nonne possum eam in cellam ponere?"

"Stultissime, ea cum homine venivit! Dominum non iterrogabam!"

John, catching almost none of that, even though he has a bit of ancient Latin as a medical man, steps forward to take control of the conversation. "Excuse me, but why are you here. Is there some trouble?"

The uniformed man smiles, "No, no worries, Julio asked me to make sure you made landfall in Messina easily. There is also a matter of funds that I need to give you access to. Would you please follow me to my boat?"

John spends a couple seconds looking at the uniformed man, letting his 'gut reaction' to the man crystallise into a clear impression. Interestingly he gets that familiar feeling of danger he got from Julio, but also the clear impression the man is speaking the truth. There is no hint of dissembling in his expressions even though there is a strange tension present in, John suddenly realises, both of the Italian men.

"Very well, just let me get my bags." Turning to reach into the awning to retrieve his pack he gestures to Mary who is also reaching for her bundle. "Mary," he whispers barely loud enough for her to hear, even as close as they are, "don't let anything separate us. We stick together."

Standing up again, John catches her gaze as he turns and notes the tiny smile and bare dip of her chin in reply. Finishing his movement he looks to the fisherman, "Thank you so much for endangering your life by helping us. I will do what I can to make sure revenge is never visited upon you."

The old fisherman, possibly not catching all of John's statement, nods and claps him on the shoulder, gently pushing him toward the speed boat. Mary follows close behind just smiling and nodding at the older man.

Scant moments later the two of them are hunkered down on the seats, along the sides of the craft, as it skips over the water at a mind blurring speed toward land. After the slow sedate pace of the fishing boat their minds are tricked into thinking its moving even quicker than it is.

In no time they are up on the docks wearing rescue ponchos the Italian gave them. "I don't care what they say, or what I say, do not speak," he tosses over his shoulder. "Can you just embrace what ever it is that has set you to flight? Let the reality of it wash over you for now, play it up as much as you can. We need you to look like your in shock so no one questions you."

John and Mary nod and then look at one another, quickly their gaze is drawn inward, as each thinks over the last couple days, both easily getting lost in the memories.

Watching their faces go vacant and lost, eyes tracking nothing, just staring sightlessly out at the water, the man nods to himself, "Perfect."

xxxxxxxxxx

John is in hell, knowing he needs to 'keep his head down', he's followed the Italian's advice and immersed himself in the memories from the last few days. His ruthless mind keeps drawing him back to the cave and replaying the sounds that occurred whilst he attacked Moriarty. Every once in a while over-laid on the scuffle-thunking sounds a flash of Moriarty will pop up in his minds eye. Sometimes the mad gleeful git from the videos, but more and more the limp rag-doll body John bashed upon the cavern rocks. Until John's mind imagines he's beaten the man to the point that blood runs freely, his flesh is bruised and pliant like rotting fruit, coming away on his fingers in clumps of gore.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Mary is thinking about the madness that has enveloped her world, how everything has turned upside down in mere days! Sometimes she wonders how she wound up standing shoulder to shoulder with a damaged man who killed another man in cold blood. Is it wrong that she doesn't care? Or should she be worried about this person she's blindly trusting?

No, she is quick to reassure herself of the facts she has learned. In the short time she has known John Watson, she has come to trust him completely, to feel very protective of him, and began wish she could erase some of the horrible things he's experienced in the last years. He has saved her life several times over and put himself and his lost partner at risk doing so. Mary has no wish to go to the police, not only does she believe John in that doing so would mean Sherlock's, and then their deaths, but she doesn't think anyone needs to know about the body in the cavern, ever.

So embroiled in their own thoughts neither notices another Port Captain asking their guide where they came from. John jolts to awareness and hears a bit of the conversation.

"Mi dica di questi scemi che se ne escono su una barchetta a remi mezza marcia! Pensavano di riuscire ad evitare di pagare il noleggio e invece ora devono pagare per la carretta che hanno affondato!"

The second man shakes his head in disbelief, "Sono americani? Sono spesso cosí... "

With a hefty shrug, "Potrebbero anche essere canadesi, ma non ne sono sicuro, non li ho sentiti parlare a sufficienza per poterlo dire. Mah, tanto gli faró sputare il rospo alla fine. Noi andiamo a far visita al vecchio signore che era il proprietario della barca!"

"Quanto sono andati avanti con quella cosa prima che affondasse?"

Chuckling a bit now, "Sono partiti dall'altro lato di Capo Peloro, sono stati catturati dalla corrente e trascinati fin qui."

"Che imbecilli!"

Shortly after that John and Mary are ushered into a car and their guide pops behind the wheel and addresses them with a cheery smile. "Well that was well done! Afraid I've poked some fun at North American tourists, but for that no one will realise the story is about you and my co-worker will swear to it. After all by tomorrow he'll be sure he heard you both talking, especially if I say you did. The memory is funny that way, detail and suggestion is all it needs."

At a hectic speed he careens through the countryside, veering back and forth, "Now, I have an envelope with your money inside in the dash, sir?" Nodding his head towards the compartment, "If you please?"

John opens the compartment and immediately finds a rather thick envelope inside. As he pulls it out their guide carries on explaining. "There's two envelopes in the bigger one, one has a hundred thousand pound sterling and the other has just under two hundred and fifty three thousand Euro in it."

The car, after making some odd turns this way and that, seems to be boarding a train as the guide continues to explain, "We will take the car train to Italy and disembark at Catona. If you are interested a friend of mine has a Citroën C-Crosser for sale in the town of Amaroni. He has listed the price as 18.500€, though I'm sure you could haggle him down a fair bit, given you're using cash."

John just stared at the envelopes in his hand in shock, then just as quickly passes them back to Mary, after all it is her money. He starts to feel anxious as the driver pops out of his seat shedding his jacket. "What are we doing now?"

With an impatient gesture, "Well? Pass up the ponchos; I'd really like to be able to return to that job when I need it again, so I'd prefer not to burn this bridge." After a second or two of puzzled inactivity on the passenger's part they hastily remove the brightly coloured rescue ponchos as their guide pops the bottom half off the back passenger door revealing a cubby full of things a person with multiple identities might need. Their coverings get squashed down to mere handfuls and stuffed inside. In scant moments he's back at the wheel smiling.

"Go ahead and nap, I'll wait at the door," gesturing to a small doorway the conductor will surely come through to gather their payment, "for tickets. Feel free to relax, no one will question three people headed to Italy from Messina."

With that he closes the door of the car and goes to stand waiting. John jumps a bit as Mary suddenly starts talking, "This all seems a bit surreal to me. What about you?"

Not replying at first John leans back and watches their guide from under lowered lashes, "I'm not sure Mary, he did bring your money... Let's take turns sleeping, you first."

A murmured thanks and Mary's soft snore is heard again in moments. John just watches.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter has a few notes! Most important being, please ignore the anti American slur. I'm sorry but the rest of the world just roll their eyes and sigh when we're around. Its just the way it is, now I did say we, because I'm an expat Canadian and generally speaking we get lumped in with our southern neighbours ALL THE TIME! If you missed the slur, don't go looking, it's in Italian and I'm about to show the translation in the notes here.
> 
> Secondly, I fussed a LOT about where to put my translation. 50% of the delay in getting this chapter out was me fussing over that! Some writers put them beside the text so you read them along with your story, some put them at the end and then you've forgotten half what was going on in the scene by the time you read them! I really struggled with this, even asked my partner, who tried to help. But in the end, I feel that John and Mary didn't understand, so why should you?
> 
> Thirdly, the two sets of interactions that are translated are, in fact, in two different languages. The first, is, as John suspects, ancient Latin and the second Italian. There are reasons for that which will NOT be explained beyond this. The man with the boat and the first Port Captain are both in Julio's employ so they use ancient Latin as a layer of security. After all the number of people ON THE PLANET that can converse freely in that dead language is very, very small!
> 
> On with the Latin translation:  
> Cur huc venisti? Why are you here?
> 
> Dominus iussit mini eos in Italiam conferendus esse. Credis me kudos facere, ludibundus greges transportare? The Master asked me to bring them into Italy. What did you think? I'm randomly transporting people for fun?
> 
> Cur iterem adsuetum non facisti? Why didn't you go the normal route?
> 
> Dominus dixit quod aliquis eos quaerabat; ergo mihi necesse erat magna cum discretione venire, quasi cellam implendus. The Master said they were being watched for, so I should move as though stocking the larder.
> 
> Aisne? Quis eos quaerit? Really? Who's looking for them?
> 
> Non scio. Fortasse britannicus. Don't know, someone from the UK.
> 
> Nonne Iceman? Not the Iceman?
> 
> Immo, dominus dixit quod Iceman quasi socium discutebant. No, the Mster said they talked about the Iceman as though he was an ally.
> 
> Ita. Nunc mutatrum facemus. Di immortales! Libera eos a cellula cobionis. Vix capax est cani! Right! We'll do the switch now, and for god's sake, let them out of the bait shed. There's hardly enough room for a dog in there!
> 
> (then John and Mary climb out and a bit more talking happens)
> 
> Nonne possum eam in cellam ponere? Are you sure that one isn't for the larder?
> 
> Stultissime, ea cum homine venivit! Dominum non iterrogabam! She came with the man you numpty, I wasn't about to ask the Master what he was doing.
> 
> And now the Italian translation:  
> Mi dica di questi scemi che se ne escono su una barchetta a remi mezza marcia! Pensavano di riuscire ad evitare di pagare il noleggio e invece ora devono pagare per la carretta che hanno affondato! Tell me about it, idiots going out in a half rotted out rowing skiff! Thought they'd avoid paying the rental fee, well now they have to pay for the skiff they sank!
> 
> Sono americani? Sono spesso cosí... Are they Americans? They are so often so...
> 
> Potrebbero anche essere canadesi, ma non ne sono sicuro, non li ho sentiti parlare a sufficienza per poterlo dire. Mah, tanto gli faró sputare il rospo alla fine. Noi andiamo a far visita al vecchio signore che era il proprietario della barca! I'm actually not sure, could be Cnadian too, haven't really said enough for me to be able to judge. Ah well, I'll get it out of them in the end. We're off to pay a visit to the old man who owned the skiff.
> 
> Quanto sono andati avanti con quella cosa prima che affondasse? How far did they get before they sank?
> 
> Sono partiti dall'altro lato di Capo Peloro, sono stati catturati dalla corrente e trascinati fin qui. They came into the water over on the other side of the point, got caught in a current and pulled down here.
> 
> Che imbecilli! Idiots!
> 
> And that is that! See you soon with the next chapter... And who will it be?!


	14. What He Wants To See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get a fire under their asses! As we begin shifting the story into a higher gear!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This (technically) is only half the chapter, but I felt like such a heel for making you guys wait so long that when I saw a good stopping point half way I took it! If things go as planned the other half will follow soon!

John is watching their temporary guide haggle for them over the car when Mary speaks up again, "Is there more to your story John?"

 

 

 

With a sharp intake of air he turns and "There is indeed more, much more." Settling in his seat, half turned so he can see her face better, John steels himself to the idea of bringing up all the details again.

 

 

 

"I developed a real worry, as we traveled south, that if I didn't keep checking my email and getting these horrific messages from Moriarty he'd know somehow and take it out on Sherlock. Not to mention my fear that he'd just, out and out, kidnap Sherlock the next time and torture him to death."

 

 

 

Glancing away, "Something a foe of ours said back in the day, 'a disguise is just a self portrait' and I think the same goes for a ruse. This in mind I thought I could learn something from the horrible videos and messages, something of Moriarty's plans, maybe find a way to out think him and get around this accursed exile. John gives a shallow self depreciating laugh, "I was right where Moriarty wanted me, manipulated in exactly the manner he wished."

 

 

 

Fidgeting a bit and watching their guide gesture derisively at the car they are looking to buy John sighs, "To be manipulated like that and know it's happening as it occurs is almost more destructive than the manipulation its self. Not only did I understand this from the point of view of the victim, but as a doctor I did my psych rotation when training up. I was fully aware of how each event was pushing me further from the possibility of regaining mental stability, further from the ability to reach out to even Harry and say, 'I'm freaked out.' Then..." with a half-laugh, half-snort John looks Mary in the eye again.

 

 

 

 "Then I got a SMS on my phone. Even though I was so sure it could only be Anthea (since she was the only one with that number) I should have thought more carefully, once bitten and all that. Moriarty had already proven he was a ruthless son of a bitch and could get to me just about anywhere, why didn't I think?"

 

 

 

Mary silently reaches a hand out and gently, slowly, lowers it onto his shoulder, making sure John sees it coming. As she grips his muscle tightly, trying to convey support, she watches his face. A face she has seen glimmer and sparkle talking of his lost love, tinged with bittersweet memory, his face is often in a 'tough bloke' set pattern, his eyes slightly narrowed, chin up aggressively, and little to no expression to his lips.

 

 

 

The face before her is neither of these. Even before, when he spoke of sicking up over the other man's death, there wasn't this... void to his expression. His eyes are big and round with a touch of a glassy sheen to them. Mary is sure it isn't tears, as there's no accumulation against the lower edge of the eye, more, she thinks, a testament to the shock he's experiencing. His chin has sunk, almost to his breast, the slump in the shoulders expressing the obvious weight this insanity has had on him. The line of his jaw is almost slack as his mouth twists, his lips and tongue trying to work past the distress the past days have built up in him.

 

 

 

Perfectly timed John's mobile alarm goes off. Mary watches as John's eyes close slowly and a long slow breath hisses out of him. The expression of his face shifting from the harsh lines of distress, completely, to the lax muscles of a passive, debilitated man, weary with the world and his current lot in it.

 

 

 

"And that would be my queue to start thinking up something to say to Moran. Bugger."

 

 

 

"Well," Mary searches John for the determination and grit she's used to seeing there, "our luck has held with Moran longer than either of us thought, I worry about that." A flicker of something in John's eyes spurs her on, "Our original plan was to be very, well, meandering in our approach to the UK, but if our luck fails during all that it'll be for naught."

 

 

 

To her relief, the tight, stubborn, jaw-forward expression of 'John Watson being determined to do what ever it takes to make Sherlock safe', slides effortlessly into place. "What do you suggest then?"

 

 

 

"We make a bit of an effort to alter our selves, and drive straight there. You've done the slow and steady path, and yes you did slip out of sight for a while, but frankly I think we'll run out of time if we try that on." Holding her breath Mary watches as her partner in crime weighs his options against her opinions.

 

 

 

After a long quiet moment, "What do you mean by 'alter'?"

 

 

 

"Oh things like temporary hair dye, or wigs, fake facial hair, that kind of thing."

 

 

 

One swift nod and the landscape of John Watson's face has done an about turn. "Ok," Mary smiles, "if we do that, straight up through France to England, then we know where to say Moriarty is looking. The best part though is you only have to keep that alarm for another day."

 

 

 

For a long moment no one in the car speaks, both of them thinking about what it would mean to be in London just over twenty-four hours from then. John pulls out Moriarty's mobile and keys it open.

 

 

 

15/09/12 19:48

Jim: The Greek did lay a false trail to Italy, we are looking to validate the overland (through Germany) route and a trail leading to Spain. Real details coming to the fore are exciting.

 

 

 

15/09/12 19:50

mormor: Well surely only ONE of the trails it true.

 

 

 

15/09/12 19:51

Jim: Of course, but it was laid by John Watson, and by studying it I can figure out his plan. Sounds like we need to go over your glib tone when I get back.

 

 

 

15/09/12 19:52

mormor: I can't wait.

 

 

 

Showing Mary the screen John watches the two Italians coming over to the car. Opening the driver's side door their guide leans in, "He's happy to give you the car for fifteen thousand Euro as your giving him cash. Sound good to you?"

 

 

 

Mary looks up from the mobile to see everyone looking at her, recalling John's earlier comment about it being her choice, with it being her money and all, Mary smiles. "Sounds great, I'd like to look at it first though, maybe take it for a test drive."

 

 

 

The owner of the car smiles back and in broken english, "Si, I have good dirt track in farm, better test than any road."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Four hours later sees them on the road in a mud splashed Citroën C-Crosser. It passed it's vetting in the mucky back fields of the farm and Mary has gleefully handed over the bills. With the keys in her hand they wave goodbye to both men and head for the nearest town big enough to have a costume shop.

 

 

 

"I've been thinking about this Mary, it doesn't need to be a great wig, just something that will fool facial recognition software that might be on any of the security cameras we encounter."

 

 

 

Mary's jaw drops, "Do you think this Moran character has access to the security feeds in foreign countries?"

 

 

 

Quick to reassure her John smiles, "No, no, that's an unrealistic. I'm thinking more along the lines of cameras at the border, now, excluding the border with the UK, all countries in the EU are open. Barring moments of civil unrest, like two years when France put up it's border with Italy again because they were being flooded with refugees from Africa, an EU citizen can move freely. We shouldn't even see a border crossing."

 

 

 

He watches as confusion wrinkles Mary's forehead. "Then why did I have to show my passport at the airport in Greece? Sure seemed like there was a border then."

 

 

 

Suppressing a smirk John replies, "It's just a token check within the EU, a way of making the people from other nations not feel singled out I'd guess. They are, of course, also checking you have a valid EU pass. But the UK is a bit of a special case, as always, in that we still have our own currency and we hold ourselves separate from the EU at times. So we are always checked a bit more rigorously, but on the roads there are only a series of tolls."

 

 

 

Comprehension smoothing the lines in her face Mary nods, "And that's where you suspect images to be taken. Right." Seeming a bit hesitant, having merged onto a left hand drive, dual carriageway, she stays over on the far right which is the slower lane of traffic. "Can we really suspect Moriarty has connections to all those cameras?"

 

 

 

Waiting calmly till the car is coasting along in the slow lane John turns to the driver, "I don't expect him to have contacts with all of them, but on the off chance that someone, either between Italy and France, or the UK and France, is on his payroll... Well I'm not willing to risk that."

 

 

 

Laughing, "That would be our luck wouldn't it John?" Her confidence in driving on the opposite side of the road coming on Mary switches into the faster lane to get around some of the really slow traffic. "So are you going to finish your story now?"

 

 

 

Feeling better than when they started out with this conversation, John nods curtly, "Sure, we are getting closer to the end." Turning and watching the southern Italy countryside flow by he thinks back to where in the story he was.

 

 

 

"Clearly I wasn't really thinking at all, when I got that message on my phone I just opened it. I'd like to say I was thinking it was safe because only Anthea knew the number, but it was as if all the hard work I'd put in, becoming a fugitive, keeping us alive, was wiped away by the oh so normal action of opening a text." Toying with the straps of his kit, his eyes still on the scenery, "This was a different kind of video. The others were good production values, soft lighting and close to the action. But this one hit home with the first solid whack of the truncheon to the eventual agonised screams.

 

 

 

Finally looking away from the window to glance at Mary, "It was the CCTV footage of my rape. No crazy man doing a voice over, nothing, just the stark, muffled sounds of my beating and rape."

 

 

 

Mary breaks in, without looking away from the road, "Oh god John! How awful for you, what did you do."

 

 

 

John shakes his head a bit, "I chucked the mobile and bought a pay-as-you-go one. Needless to say I was a bit off by the time we got to Terni. I was so twisted up all I did was hide in our room and snap at Harry if she asked me to come out with her." he clears his throat and Mary thinks he must be feeling upset.

 

 

 

"It's not as though Harry was going out and screaming where we were, but she wasn't trained for this stuff. She needed my help and I was having a breakdown in our room! She got us some food in, and figured out where the bus and train connections were, she was great. But on the fifth day, just as we were packing to go there was a knock at the door."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't think there was any explinations nessisary this time, so if you have a question, as always PM me and I'll add your question & answer here as well as responding to you.
> 
> Ta


	15. Real Nowhere Man

John looks through the peephole in the hotel door to see the same young man that has been bringing their food the past three days. Sweat is rolling down his temples and John spares a moment to feel bad for the kid in the kitchen's polyester uniform running around in the un-air-conditioned hotel hallways.

 

His reedy english drifts through the door, "The manager has sent up a free lunch appetiser for you, to say thank you again for the number of times you frequented our dinner hall."

 

John shakes his head, laughing a bit; the thanks for their patronage has been frequent over their five day stay. Indeed the manager's Mum's tiramisu is the biggest reason John has been feeling more like himself again. So happily he opens the door and the young man strolls in pushing the overly elaborate cart.

 

"Thank you very much, oh let me get those out of your way," John quickly reaches out and chucks their rucksacks into the large wardrobe in the front hall gesturing the boy further in. "Please put it over by the table." The young man nods and pushes by John, in the following three or four seconds John notices two things, one the boy is positively shaking and two that he's rolling the cart toward Harry, not the table as instructed, then the bellboy pivots and sprints for the door.

 

John, enraged and wanting to catch him, shouts at Harry to drop down between the wall and the bed, then turns to grab the bellboy. That's when the cart explodes and John is thrown by the force into the on-suite.

 

Moments later John sits up and shakes his head trying to clear out the familiar ringing in his ears. Being used to sudden fire fights and shelling from his tours in Afghanistan he takes a second to blink his vision clear and take stock of his own injuries. His right shoulder feels like it's on fire, but the sensation is dulling down even as he notices it, 'Wrenched but not quite dislocated shoulder, must have hit the door frame on the way through,' other that that everything seems in near perfect order.

 

From experience he knows that kind of bomb is meant to start a fire that will burn the hotel down, preferably with them in it. The drill sergeant part of his mind snaps to, 'Get a bloody move on Watson! Get Harry and get the hell out of there before the smoke kills both of you!'

 

Grabbing onto the counter in the loo he drags himself upright and looks around the corner into the blast area. The whole room is in charred tatters, the mattress is flipped back and he fervently hopes it is sheltering his sister. Carefully John steps over the burning bits of furniture, not bothering to try to find out what is what, their bags are safely in the large dented wardrobe by the door. The damage to the main part of the room, though catastrophic, is not his problem.

 

Roughly clearing his throat, John carefully picks his way over to the flipped mattress and wrenches it away, underneath lies Harry, unconscious, pinned between the bed and the wall. Quickly the veteran sees that the explosion has shifted the bed off it's usual spot and the heavily framed thing is applying a lot of pressure on his sister. With the time of a few breaths of RECI as he scans the bed, sees John bracing his legs low against the wall and pushing against the frame, away from Harry. She rolls onto her front with a low moan and the wheels in the trauma surgeons brain are instantly churning, worry blossoming sharp and quick, but now wasn't the time for triage.

 

Carefully positioning her on her front John, ignoring the twinge from his left shoulder and the screaming, bright fire of pain receptors, in his right shoulder, slides his left forearm, from over her left shoulder, under her collar bones, to grip the front of her right shoulder joint. His half-numb right arm he slides under her abdomen to grip the front of her left hip. Summoning all his strength, using his own chest as a stand in for a spinal board, John, positions his left foot as close to Harry's shoulder as possible, then presses his sister firmly to his chest as he heaves both of them upward in one clean move.

 

Regardless of his care an ominous grinding sounds in his ears. So loud that he looks around for a breath suspecting it was the buildings structure groaning, and worried that if he moved the floor would give way. But once Harry is securely against his chest and John has stopped moving the sound stops as well. A brief thought flickers through his mind, 'wish it had been the building.'

 

Carefully he picks his way out, skirting the flames that are catching well, and heading for the hallway. As he passes the young man slumped against the door John notices his hand moving slightly. His oath in the forefront of his mind John carefully walks four doors down the hall and lays Harry down. Out of necessity John leaves his sister on the floor, amongst the few people arriving to see what the commotion is all about, to return to the room. As he approaches the room John heard someone call out, "...i soccorritori!" But John couldn't wait, thick black smoke was beginning to collect and waft out the door.

 

Just past the, now mostly awake, bellboy was the wardrobe with their things and as John reaches past him to collect them and chuck them down the hall - first selecting out the pack with the laptop slinging it over his shoulder - before the jangling of the Hippocratic oath makes John scoop him up and bring him down the hallway as well.

 

Now able to move into triage mode John assesses his sister. In that first few seconds, while looking over Harry, lifting her shirt to see the crooked bruise across her sternum, unfortunately validating that first awful prognosis of a fractured sternum. John runs over the list of injuries, which could have several complications, not the least of which is bruised lungs or heart and carefully searches for evidence of these.

 

Whilst doing this diagnosing with most of his mind, his right hand was furiously texting Anthea. The response is immediate, she instructs him to keep the burner mobile on and she'll follow it where ever he goes.

 

Now free to find out what the hell is going on John turns back to the young man who is now moaning and groaning on the floor beside them. John flickers a look about, shocked there's only three people there and the wail of fire trucks is still in the distance. Checking the time on the mobile John starts to realise it's only been a little over four minutes since the bomb went off.

 

His face set in a grim snarl he levers the boy up by the front of his polyester shirt, "Why? Why would you do that?"

 

The busboy, instead of feigning ignorance just shakes his head, "My Mama, he would let her go if I did as he asked and hurt you. He said he just want to warn you, make you scared, I'm sorry, so sorry!"

 

His face smoothing out instantly, John gently lowers the young man back down. Having understood the leverage Moriarty has on the poor kid he starts looking him over, possible concussion, split scalp and bruised back, but that is about it.

 

A sudden thunder of footsteps and John is looking up into the face of a fire rescue person in full gear behind a fireproof baclava and full face mask. They are trying to give him an oxygen mask. It's as though his brain was ignoring everything but his two 'patients', the hall is rapidly filling with thick smoke and the former spectators have all gone. Gratefully taking the mask and pulling in sweet thick oxygen John pulls it away and fits it over the bellboys mouth while John tries to talk to the person hovering over him. "I am a doctor, do you understand english?"

 

There's a head shake and then John feels a hand on his, the bellboy is asking him to move his hand and gesturing the rescuer closer. A few seconds of whispered conversation and the boy smiles up at John breathing in the mask. A second rescuer comes and offers another oxygen mask to him, but he just holds it intent upon talking to John, "I can tell them for you, tell me."

 

John smiles back, "Tell them they need a spinal board for her, her breast bone is broken. At this point I think that is all, her pulse and breathing are normal so I don't think she has bruised either of those organs...yet." He stops to breath in the oxygen again while the young man whispers the info into the rescuer's ear.

 

By this time someone has fitted Harry with an oxygen mask too and a flurry begins as the man talking with the bellboy shouts a few instruction, moments later someone with a spinal board appears and they gently lift Harry onto it.

 

John turns back urgently, "Tell them you have a split scalp, possible concussion and extensive bruising across your chest, you were very lucky." Reaching down and grabbing the kids arm, "I have to go with Harry, but don't tell them you put the bomb on the cart, he'll kill your mum, understand kid?! It was NOT your fault!"

 

With that John, coughing hooks his oxygen firmly on his face, turns and follows the people moving carefully to the stairs with his sister suspended between them. Glancing at his mobile again he is shocked to see only eight minutes have passed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Mary's mouth is open slightly in shock, "What happened after that?"

 

John smiled, "Well, we were whisked off to the nearest hospital and Harry was sorted. They gave her an MRI to make sure there was no soft tissue damage and five hours, almost to the dot, after I texted Anthea she strode into the waiting room I was in and sat down beside me."

 

Her shock still evident, "Oh my god, she's like MI6 or something! What did she do?"

 

"Well she handed me over a lump of money a new laptop and took my fake ID, replacing it with a new one. Apparently she gave the owner of the hotel enough money to rebuild and a sizeable extra to keep him from advertising what occurred. I was well glad of that. She then told me that as soon as Harry was out of the MRI she would take her back to the UK. They had a safe house on Sark that Anthea thought would be a good place for her once the chest was healed enough. Till then they would keep her moving from hospital to hospital to keep ahead of Moriarty."

 

Suddenly turning away again his voice trembles a bit, "You have to know I didn't want to leave her, but Anthea pointed out that she wasn't Moriarty's focus, I was, and she'd be safer. Not to mention I'd hide better alone."

 

Mary waits quietly for a long time, allowing John to get himself under control, "So I took my things and hopped on a bus to Germany. Having been stationed there quite a while in my training and first tour I could make a run at not resorting to english every time. I was aware I wouldn't be mistaken for a native speaker, but at least I was just a random foreigner who was trying hard with the language. Rather than that British bloke that had a bit of german, and that was it. That was the last time I had direct contact with any of them."

 

For a few minutes the car is silent as the grave, then Mary turns away, turns on her signal light and merges into traffic. John, half turned away from her, stares resolutely out the window. 'Oh god,' Mary finds herself thinking, 'this is going to be a long twenty-four hours!'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you go! Things are falling into place quickly now (wish I could say that makes writing them easier), as promised the next chapter will have more Sherlock in it, I'm not sure when... I've fallen I'll and can't remember what my brill idea for that chapter was, or where I scribbled it down! But I'll keep looking!  
> Ta  
> Oopse forgot RECI and MRI! RECI is a soldiers vernacular for RECON wich is a short form for reconnaissance. I don't know why they do it, but they often do. MRI refers to the Magnetic Resonance Imager that is usedtile an ex-ray, but to view the soft tissues. They are too cool. Anything else pm me!


	16. Nowhere Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And back to Sherlock again ;)

Inside the holding cell the arrested persons as well as their respective officers were separated into several small groups all hovering as closely to the back of the room as they can, as far away from the tall, thin, dark and malevolent man slouching beside the doorway with DI Lestrade. It only took a few moments, during which the relevant police officers scribble in their note books at a pace, while the tall man spit out their darkest secrets.

 

 

 

Lestrade allowed Sherlock this stress release, the 'victims' of his brilliance were all handcuffed so no one could take a swing at Sherlock and they mostly began to plead with their arresting officer to get them away from the 'mind reading freak'. Often admitting to their crimes as well as ones they weren't even being charged with in order to be allowed to get away from the baleful, colourless eyes glaring down at all of them.

 

 

 

Only when that pale gaze falls on one of the officers does Lestrade pipe up, "Not now Sherlock, you can tell me everything later."

 

 

 

"But you won't know who I'm talking about then, your hardly intelligent enough to remember which men are in this room." Lestrade winces already seeing the faces of the two female officers turning red, but Sherlock is quick enough this time. "Oh please, even you must think he's smart enough to remember the two women present, he did manage to attain the rank of DI. I just know the seven almost identical males will give his recollection a bit of a test." 

 

 

 

The pinched expression on all of the law enforcement officers signals the end of this method of entertainment to Lestrade. Sighing deeply he moves to stand in front of Sherlock, lowering his voice for his friend alone. "If you can contain yourself you'll lose less face. You and I both know your brother is currently collating all the info he can to prove you weren't the one who pinched the kids, but you and I have to give him the time. This means..."

 

 

 

With a suffering sigh, "That I must behave and not be, what did he say, 'belligerent'." A small sigh escapes, "Do you believe me?"

 

 

 

Without even pausing for breath, "Of course I do Sherlock."

 

 

 

For a long moment Sherlock deduces his friend, searching his entire demeanour for evidence of a lie. In the end he comes up with nothing and has to bow his head to hide the damning evidence in his own expression - the tell tale prickle he feels in his eyes. When he feels he can trust his voice Sherlock forces out a rough, "Cheers."

 

 

 

Lestrade leans up against the wall beside Sherlock and keeps thinking quickly, he needs to keep his charge busy before people clue into the fact that he has actually arrested Sherlock Holmes. In his pocket his mobile buzzes and Lestrade grabs for it quickly, he's been waiting for this message.

 

 

 

15/09/13 20:47

(withheld)  The pertinent information on the whereabouts of SH has been forwarded to your chief, you are free to release him. This JM is getting ridiculous, they must be stepping up their efforts to keep us busy. As if we aren't busy enough with the Duchess in hospital. 

 

 

 

Lestrade looks up to see Sherlock reading his own text and is about to say something about leaving when one of the officers who left first for processing pops back into the room. "DI Lestrade, that was an amazing ploy! Not that we can do it all the time, the punters will eventually catch on. But pretending to book in Sherlock Holmes so he can do that thing he does on the people we're bringing in! Brilliant! All of the interrogation rooms are full, each one of those men and women saying they'll happily agree to any of their charges provided we promise to never let Mr. Holmes at them again. What a night! Next time warn the booking desk so they can call in more staff!" With a chuckle the officer leaves and Sherlock and Lestrade share a moment of stunned silence.

 

 

 

Shaking his head Lestrade thinks on the text and the current flurry they're causing. "God Sherlock, life is just odd around you."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Riding up in the lift Sherlock clears his throat, "You have someone feeding your team false information and we need to find out who."

 

 

 

Lestrade holds a hand up to stop him talking, "Wait." So the rest of the ride and their progression to Lestrade's office are carried out in silence. Most don't blink, at Sherlock's appearance in the Met as it is a normal occurrence. But one Sargent Donovan is slack jawed with shock.

 

 

 

Slowing in his stride as they pass her desk Lestrade mutters to her, "Give me a moment and I'll call you in." Then they disappear into Lestrade's office. Donovan leans back in her chair with a bitter twist to her mouth.

 

 

 

Once the door latches Sherlock starts to pace the room, Lestrade closes the blinds and pulls a bug sweeper out of his desk. Hardly a flicker to his hands from Sherlock, without breaking his stride he comments, "So my brother gave you some spy kit, do you sweep the room often? The mole must be someone who has frequent contact with Donovan."

 

 

 

"I hate to suggest it..." 

 

 

 

Sherlock interrupts him with a sharp gesture, "No, Anderson might be lax at times in his job, a philanderer, and not make the best career choices. But I don't see him as having the psychopathic tendencies necessary to fool me all this time."

 

 

 

With a disbelieving snort, "Is that a Sherlock way of saying, he's a nice enough sort?"

 

 

 

"If you must dumb it down, that is an approximation."

 

 

 

With a second snort Lestrade puts his bug sweeper down and gestures thhrough the doorway for the sergeant to come in. Moments after the door shuts the three of them in there alone. "Why is he walking around and not in a cell?"

 

 

 

Lestrade uses his sweeper to make sure she isn't bugged then tosses the device in a drawer. "The chief has received adequate proof that Sherlock was not involved, regardless of how the ambassador's daughter reacted."

 

 

 

"And we're just supposed to believe it?! He's a bloody genius, he could have easily faked the proof he needed. How can you let him convince you like this?"

 

 

 

With a quick look to Sherlock, who nods, "Look, let's all sit down for a minute." Perching on the edge of his desk he offers up his chair to Donovan, who reluctantly, glaring at Sherlock, takes the seat. "The reason why I know Sherlock didn't go anywhere near that girl, is because I was playing 'All Fours' with him, his Brother and his landlady all afternoon, evening and well into that night. I had my eyes on him the entire time, unless he could have nipped out and done everything, including the sexual assault in the time it takes me to visit the bog. What do you think?"

 

 

 

Suspicion level a bit lower she cocks her head to the side, "Spending free time at 221B sir? Why?"

 

 

 

Sherlock's voice surprises them both by offering, "I had indicated to the DI that I might be a danger to myself for various reasons if left alone." Ignoring the confusion on Donovans face he plows on, "So I spent just under thirteen hours with the three of them, and the following six hours with DI Lestrade and my brother alone in my flat."

 

 

 

Donovan shakes her head, "Okay, but why didn't you just say that straight off?" Lestrade sighs, "Because I couldn't be assumed impartial and Mycroft couldn't be officially listed as a witness, nor is he impartial. His landlady, though a witness and not officially involved, is also not impartial either! So to make sure clearing him stuck we had to wait till enough hard, third person information was gathered and sent in, and that wasn't as quick as normal today. Mycroft being run about with the gathering fervour over the Duchess being in labour.

 

 

 

Donovan laughes, "Your brother had his people comb the CCTV feeds to track Sherlock to and from Baker St didn't you."

 

 

 

"Yes," Lestrade responds, "Sherlock has been well behaved since all this funny business started and not avoiding the cameras like usual."

 

 

 

With a harsh laugh, "Oh please, as if they wouldn't jump at the chance to not be covering the birth of a child! As if it doesn't happen thousands of times all over the planet daily!"

 

 

 

"Sherlock," Lestrade starts in a beleaguered tone when suddenly a young man pops in the room with barely a knock, "Detective! The young girl has finished with the sketch artist and it's quite telling!" Offering over a large picture to Lestrade he grins rakishly at Donovan and then rushes on again.

 

 

 

"Well that tears it, have a look you two." and he hands the sketch over. The man depicted is definitely not Sherlock, the difference very clear with the lack of colour. The eye shape is too rounded, the eyebrows and lips far too thin, the hair too neat and tidy. This coupled with the lack of gaunt hollows to the cheeks makes it clear.

 

 

 

Sherlock hisses under his breath, "That man is familiar, but why?" Moments later he is staring quietly out the window searching his mind palace.

 

 

 

Donovan shakes her head at the detective's behaviour then looks to her boss, "So someone is trying to frame 'his nibs' then?" At Lestrade's nod she continues, "Why?"

 

 

 

With a toes deep sigh he is to explain, "Do you remember James Moriarty? Do you remember how he was obsessed with Sherlock?"

 

 

 

"Yes I do, he was some kind of genius too wasn't he? Was the one who caused all that trouble a few years back with that guy... uhm, his name was John wasn't it?"

 

 

 

Snapping abruptly out of his mind palace Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, "Doctor John Hamish Watson to you Donovan." Ignoring Lestrade's shocked face he continues on, "I have discovered who the sketch depicts. It is Colonel Sebastian Moran, he was John's commanding officer for a while. I suggest you run that name and see what you come up with."

 

 

 

With that he rushes out the door as Lestrade and Donovan stare after him.

 

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Donovan sighs, she's not too sure how to feel about this new information. On one hand proof that the detective isn't behind the kidnapping is a relief, if only because then he didn't lie to them and she can trust her instincts about him again. On the other hand that feeling of vindication was nice. The one that comes from knowing she'd been right about him all along. She thinks back to that long forgotten conversation with Watson, 'Some day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.'

 

 

 

Suppressing a groan of frustration she keeps doggedly on the path that her thoughts are taking. Donovan knows the reason she said such spiteful words to Watson long ago were that she was seething from the 'deductions' that Sherlock had made about her and Anderson. She isn't usually the kind of person who will slander someone, kind of a behaviour they frown on in the police service and she's never had a problem with it before meeting Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

With a muted chink a cup appears in her field of view. Looking up she sees her young constable friend. "Hey there Angela, is that coffee for me?"

 

 

 

Angela laughs, "No it's for your desk. Though I don't recommend pouring it on the surface so it can enjoy it, might be the last thing the desk experiences. This shite could eat straight through titanium!" The two giggle as they sip at their respective cups of 'titanium acid'.

 

 

 

"Anything interesting happen today Sally?"

 

 

 

If she hadn't just been in a conference with Sherlock Holmes she probably would have missed the even balance of that question. How the inflection was completely perfect, not natural and spontaneous, rehearsed. Stalling for time by taking another sip Sally glances up to Angela's eyes. 

 

 

 

As soon as Angela notices she's looking her in the eye she smiles wider and the flat expressionless look in her eyes disappears. Smirking Sally laughs, "No, thank god. No new murders. Though I might be starting to sound like," Sally watches her friends expression closely, "the freak when I say I wish somebody'd get offed so I can stop being so bored!"

 

 

 

Her careful scrutiny is rewarded by a quick flicker of something not quite right in Angela's eyes. Riding her gut reaction Sally swallows her own reaction and listens to the young woman's response. 

 

 

 

"I'm not surprised Sally, if you have nothing new to investigate then it's the dreaded paperwork mines!!!"

 

 

 

Taking the escape where she can get it, Sally smiles, "Oh god no! Paperwork!" they collapse into more giggles, Sally works hard at it sounding exactly as childish and naive as before. Looking down at her watch Sally fakes frustration, "Shite! The DI wanted me to track something down before lunch!"

 

 

 

Angela looks at her watch and horror colours her face, "Well for your sake I hope it's photocopies! It's ten to!"

 

 

 

Standing quickly Sally heads to Lestrad's office with a call over her shoulder, "Nah, I'll face the music! Catch you for drinks after work?" Receiving a positive response she quickly walks into the office and closes the door.

 

 

 

Lestrade looks up with a confused look on his face as she reaches across her desk and pulls the bug sweeper out of his drawer and checks herself. After it blips a negative on finding any bugs she passes it back to him to put away.

 

 

 

"Donovan?"

 

 

 

"Lestrade I think I have just 'made' a mole in the Met." At his incredulous expression she continues, "I have a friend, Angela, who is a constable here in the Met. I have known her for a little over a year and until just now I have never realised she is a complete and utter fake."

 

 

 

Typing away at the computer Lestrade quickly verifies that there is a constable 'Angela' that works in the Met. "And why do you suddenly think there should be a 'mole'?"

 

 

 

"Well come on, she was a breath away from pumping me for information on my favourite freak! And when I told her nothing happened today she was disappointed, very disappointed, she lost her mask for a second and I managed to catch it. I fully expected her to start talking about the awaited birth, she's very much a royalist so it should be the first thing on her mind today. But nope, not a word."

 

 

 

"All I can think is that she's been planted to be my confidant or something. Who do you think I was talking to about the kids reaction to Sherlock, huh? Given how badly that Moriarty bloke wants Sherlock there has to be someone watching us and Angela is the perfect cover." Not realising exactly how much she just sounded like her nemesis pacing up and down the room making proclamations Sally Donovan whirls to glare at her boss when she thinks she hears a low chuckle. But Lestrade's face is placid and helpful in expression.

 

 

 

The door swings open on this tableau and in strides Sherlock Holmes, "I don't care what your up to, it's time to come with me." with an uncomfortable look at the large stack of paperwork he has to do yet that day Greg Lestrade ushers Donovan out the door in front of him after pocketing the sweeper. What ever Sherlock is on about had better be good.

 

 

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! I had a lot of fun with this chapter ;) things in order of appearance:
> 
> In the UK prisoners in station houses are not put into large cells all together (the typical holding cells) once done being booked in they go in single person cells till they are moved for trial etc. So in order to get Sherlock at all of them I started before they're actually booked and waiting in processing.
> 
>  
> 
> I refer to 'the Duchess' being in hospital a few times in this chapter, this is a little bit of fun on my behalf. She went into hospital this morning (22/07/13) at 6am in the early stage of labour and is still giving birth now, 8hrs later. The media frenzy has been a bit mad. Yes I'm supper glad she's having a baby and I'm a bit of a royalist (someone who likes the monarchy or follows the Queen on Facebook), but I do feel bad for her. She'd doing a super private thing in the middle of a media circus (even the news reporters after the first three hours of standing outside the hospital/Buckingham palace started suggesting we pay more attention to the other news) and that is more pressure than a woman in labour needs to be experiencing! 
> 
>  
> 
> I do have Sherlock being pretty nasty about it, happens every day everywhere, comment about childbirth. But that's just him, not me ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Sally uses the term 'his nibs' which is aBritish slang term used, jokingly, to refer to someone who is a bit full of themself, snobbish, and/or aristocratic. Who, basically, has an over-large ego.... Fits don't it?


	17. A Bit Like You And Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and John's road trip continues!

 

 

 

Sitting in the driver's seat Mary looks in the mirror and adjusts the short brunette wig on her head. With a laugh she looks over at John who has popped on a bald cap and is stippling fake black/brown scruff on his face and neck using the small sun visor mirror. "I don't think anyone will mistake you for yourself John!"

 

 

 

John joins her in a chuckle, "And between that wig and your super flattening sports bra you'll look an awful lot like a bloke to those cameras." After fending off a couple fists to the shoulder John looks over to see a stranger smiling at him.

 

 

 

A spike of hope jumps in his belly, they might just make it! Having bought a new phone and a map at a small shop near the costume shop John laughs as he starts working on a text for Anthea. The plan is simple, they have been up for over 48hrs, though they did nap on the boat, so they will split the driving into two hour shifts and the other will sleep if they can while not driving. In about six hours they will stop and get more food and hopefully John will tell his final tale. It's sitting like a stone cat, curled up on his heart, and he needs rid of it!

 

 

 

Mary, though incensed by the comment, is still smiling at John, happy to see so much more of the self-assured man in his bearing. The slumped shoulders of defeat are gone and he seems to take up three times as much space in the car by attitude alone. Shaking her head she carefully follows the shop keep's instructions to get back to the main roads. 

 

 

 

They were to take the Strada Provinciale 48 north, away from the coast, turn onto the SS280 via the E848 headed for the A3, follow that until they got to Naples and there make the switch to the A1 to take them to Rome. In Rome they would stop to eat stock up on food to make the push through the rest of Italy and get into France. 

 

 

 

John tries to get comfortable in his seat, reclining it a bit and propping his feet on his kit. Smiling a touch at the avid look of concentration on Mary's face he speaks up before he can fall asleep, "Your on the main road?"

 

 

 

Mary shakes her head no, "Still on the feeder road, but the shop keep said this one merges right onto the A3."

 

 

 

John nods closing his eyes, "Okay, wake me in two hours. Feel free to play the radio, open the windows, air con, whatever you need to stay awake."

 

 

 

"No worries John, I'll stay awake no problem, I used to drive up to Newcastle to visit my Aunt in the holidays and that is a day long trip if you have good luck with the traffic and construction!" Glancing over at his placid face she smiles to herself popping in the earbuds from her iPlayer and pressing play. 

 

 

 

Gripping the steering wheel she starts lip syncing to Keane's 'Bedshaped' as she flows with traffic through the lovely southern Italian countryside. 

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

For the first time in years John sinks happily into sleep, the sound of the car rolling relentlessly over the tarmac lulling him down, with a singular deep sigh he finds himself falling through layers of consciousness. This time the nasty things lurking in his mind are not on display, they are dulled and fuzzy, easily ignored as he slips past them slotting gently into a singularly beautiful dream.

 

 

 

A deep feeling of calm and bliss envelops him as he slowly blinks his eyes open to see Sherlock across the sitting room puttering about in the kitchen. The clothes he's wearing are a bit crumpled and he has a gleefully mad look on his face as he dances about the kitchen. Snorting quietly at his love's odd habits John looks down at himself to realise he too is in rumpled attire. 'Ah, the day after our mutual wank to a description of how I'd take him apart like a pressent. I see.'

 

 

 

A part of him is aware that this is a dream recollection of a memory, and part of his mind and soul believe this joy, however impossible, is real. On one side he's just staring at Sherlock, knowing that very soon he's going to get the supreme pleasure of that ass. And on the other he's cringing away, mentally, knowing that it has been years since he saw his lover and that he may never see him alive again.

 

 

 

Rocketing heavenward on earth-shattering joy he feels the cloying desperation of reality clinging, but he shoves it away and delves into his memory, letting the actual time line of that day slither through his fingers like soapy bubbles. Popping with sharp bursts of pleasure that spiral down his spine pooling in his loins.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Mary is laughing at a crazy podcast she had saved on her iPod and enjoying the uniqueness of the southern Italian interior countryside. The land seems very flat and smooth, almost quilt-like, with the occasional big hill or mountain sticking up out of the middle. Not surprising for an area that's been farmed for thousands of years! The golden velvet of the fall harvest draws her eye, so bright on the fields, this Autumn day. 

 

 

 

Out of her periphery she catches John moving, his back arches and a quiet moan slips out of his throat as his head falls sharply forward jerking him awake. For a few moments she thinks she saw wrong, as there is no reaction from her friend. No, 'hey is it almost my time to drive?', or, 'Did you see anything nice?' Nothing. Unreasonable worry crawling up the back of her throat she looks around for a lay-by or something.

 

 

 

In between trying to decipher signs in a foreign language, Mary glances over to John and each time all she sees is his body rigid in the seat, his face turned away toward the window. After a few minutes of silence Mary finds herself muttering, "It's okay John, whatever it is, just give me a couple minutes and we'll sort it out, ok? John?" 

 

 

 

Finally, there is an amenities coming up in a kilometre and Mary turns in without blinking. As soon as the parking break is pulled she turns to check him over. John is still sitting there stiffly, his eyes trained out his passenger window, but, now that the car has stopped, she can see a fine tremor running through his frame accentuating the tight position of his body. Her internal worry ramping up even more she manages to choke out, "John? You awake?"

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

John's heart aches, he feels as though there was a biting, cold pain chewing through the actual muscle of the organ. Gnawing on the side of his own tongue in desperation he tries not to voice the clawing panic and loss he feels.

 

 

 

He had his beloved in the dream and it was transcendent! The joy of that physical act suffusing his every thought. The dream had gathered his memories close and John had opened his arms to it. Horrifically the event was different enough to fool him and that's just what it did. Somehow, half way through, the sequence changed so that he started to believe he was awake, that because they stayed in bed as apposed to running off after Lestrade's beckoning, it must be a new memory, not fiction of his dreaming mind.

 

 

 

In short, John had started to believe he had been awake the whole time and waking up lying stiff and upright in the car seat brought the loss of what he and Sherlock shared all back, all at once. Instantly wracked with silent sobs, tears streaming down his face John tries desperately to get a hold on his emotions, Mary's comforting murmur a faint reminder of her existence. The sheer anguish is controlling him and all he can do is tremble in it's grasp.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

"John?" a few tense moments pass before he wipes his eyes and slowly turns to look at his partner in crime. "Are you okay?"

 

 

 

Nodding sharply, "Yeah, just a rough dream is all. I'll be fine in a minute." Hunkering over his kit John tries to force the freshly burning pain of his loss away as he stretches forward and back in the seat. "Is it my turn to drive soon?"

 

 

 

Mary nods, "Yeah we might as well switch, it's been a bit under two hours, but not by much." Looking toward the building they are parked by, "Do you need the loo?"

 

 

 

"Better, just to be sure, you go first." Shortly Mary returns with and armload full of different flavours of nougat. Laughing John heads out to the main road after a quick trip inside, "They'll be scraping us off the roof of this car if we get stopped with all that sugar!" 

 

 

 

Mary just smiles gleefully at him, devours two packets and then falls into a 'sugar coma' sleep.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Italy passes in a blur of fields, random hills and peaks sticking up here and there. Not willing to go back to sleep so soon John keeps driving long after the two hour marker has been reached. Mary is sleeping soundly as he pulls into another amenities stop and cuts the gas. Feeling a bit irritated with himself for being afraid to feel the emotions from a dream again, John quietly gets out of the car and locks Mary in. 

 

 

 

Inside he collects together some food and drinks they can consume in the car and stops in the chemists to see if they have sleeping pills. Unsurprisingly they have a vast selection of things to keep one awake, but nothing that John is comfortable driving with. Most marked with warnings about drowsiness and such. Muttering curses under his breath John resigns himself to not sleeping till they get back and grabs a double handful of the caffeine pills. The cashier raises a meticulous eyebrow at him and John shrugs. The young man looks to the car he saw John climb out of, notes the second person snoring away and rings the pills up.

 

 

 

Seven and a half hours later Mary stirs, John winces knowing she's going to be mad at him and waits for her to notice that it's dark. He waits silently as she blinks her eyes open and then just stares at the windscreen for a moment.

 

 

 

"John, why is it dark?" 

 

 

 

Carefully not looking over to see how angry she is John answers, "Because it's twenty past two in the morning."

 

 

 

Her voice coloured slightly with irritation, "John Watson, did you let me sleep through a sunset in the Italian countryside?"

 

 

 

Turning his head quickly in surprise John sees she is not as mad as he had thought she would be, "Uhm, you'll get to see the sunrise in France?" he tries to play it off gently.

 

 

 

"Well yes, thank you for the sleep, I feel great, but next time stick to the plan, ok?"She watches the man beside her wriggling a bit in discomfort before continuing, "You can drive for a while still my brain isn't quite up to dual-carriageway speed yet."

 

 

 

Blushing a bit at the reprimand John stops looking for a lay-by where they can switch places, "Right, just let me know, I'll be fine for a bit yet." Glancing over to assess if she really is accepting what has happened, or is just stewing over it, John decides to just go for it. "We're in Monaco, and from there it's only a few minute to Nice, which is a resort town so we should be able to find someplace open."

 

 

 

"You mean to tell me we are in another country already? I slept through Italy?"

 

 

 

John winces internally, wondering if avoiding the dream, that might not even come, was worth the vitriol spewing in the seat beside him. Gazing longingly at passing cars that have no passengers he prepares to wait Mary's rage out.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is where I beg the forgiveness of my readers (if I have any left!) for taking so long. All I can say is there are two reasons, one it's summer holidays so I have no time to my self at all! Secondly the subject matter in this one (John's dream and his reaction) is something that I wrote about from experience.
> 
> I have lost various people in my family, really only my older sister is left, and from time to time, when I'm stressed or vulnerable somehow, I dream they are still alive and when I wake up the loss happens all over again. I hoped that if I gave it life somewhere else it'll stop haunting me. Yeah, sorry, that was total over-share, but I wanted you all to know what he feels is real, to someone ;)
> 
> And if you don't know what nougat is, make it your food mecca, because it is GLORIOUS!


	18. Sitting In His Nowhere Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the baddies come back on stage ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here is the usual apology, but with a twist. I am really sorry for the long wait, but happily the next won't be long. You see I didn't write this chapter first, I wrote the next chapter and was almost done when I realised it's been a REALLY long time since the bad guys put an oar in. Honestly once the idea occurred to me it wouldn't let up. So here you go, have some Moran!

 

Sebastian glares at the intel in irritation because it doesn't add up. Jim has gone 'dark' since arriving at those caverns in Greece and while the texts did seem like the kind of thing he'd send, they weren't...there was something... He shakes his head like a bear crawling out of a river, there is something off, he just has to settle down and figure out what.

 

 

 

Thinking about it all carefully he knows that it could be written off as his boss being irritated with Rob, with John getting the drop on him, and that most likely everything is fine. He's just in one of his usual tiffs; where one idiot has angered him, yet everyone pays with his short temper and blood thirsty disposition. Still the back of his neck prickles at the thought of Jim coming back and not in a pleasant anticipatory manner. 

 

 

 

With a grunt of frustration he turns to look over the live feeds he has on Sherlock. Jim got inventive over the years, and not only does he have a back door hack into the CCTV on Baker St and St. Barts, but he has hacked into - and even placed - a few cameras inside the flat over the years. 

 

 

 

Yes, it is true Sherlock finds and destroys them every few weeks, even though it is 'ghost surveillance', it's still easy enough for the genius to find them. Then Sebastian just waits for Mycroft's collectors to go in and replace them, then he hacks back into the system. 

 

 

 

There hasn't been any deviations from the usual schedule Sherlock keeps; Sebastian snorts to himself over the idea of Sherlock doing anything in a definably 'regular' way. The mad man has become quite the recluse in the last year. Hardly works with the Yard any more, just goes occasionally to watch interrogations and give advice. After the last case where a young woman who was abducted and raped broke down when the almighty Sherlock Holmes walked in, there haven't been any private cases on offer either. 

 

 

 

Sebastian wonders if Sherlock's pesky brother has something to do with that. Someone was keeping him from going off the rails and it certainly wasn't the DI, which was also frustrating. Sherlock was supposed to be getting more and more restless, acting out in public from the frustration of people being so simple as to believe he's behind all the setups Sebastian himself has masterminded.

 

 

 

The plan was simple, with stage make-up and a permanent, Sebastian himself looked enough like Sherlock Holmes to fool a traumatised person. The last one, he added a few things, coloured contacts, lost a stone and toned up a bit, even tinting his hair darker, up and downstairs. After all he had assaulted the young thing, which was a much closer crime and the recount of minor details could blow the frame up wide open. Yet it held together and it was only the fact that Sherlock had an alibi, had been physically in a room with someone at the time of the rape, that he got off scot free. 

 

 

 

'I'll get him next time.' So Sebastian thinks as he tags someone to go over the footage again while he tries to figure out what is bothering him. A dark corner of his mind that sounds disturbingly like Jim whispers to him that he's just afraid he went too far with the girl and they will see right away it wasn't Sherlock. 'The mad asexual detective raping a girl suddenly, it's a bit too much, isn't it?' whispers the voice sibilantly. Shaking his head again Sebastian pulls back to the problem. 

 

 

 

A real source of this irritation is that James Moriarty has not accessed any of the 'dead drops' in Spain, not a single one. Sure Sebastian knows Jim has accounts no-one, not even he, knows about, but ready cash and weapons just sitting there? Sebastian's tactical mind can't explain why Jim wouldn't at least send Rob to collect the stuff if he was worried about it being watched. He as much as said Rob was a dead man walking, perfect for such a job and no loss if he got pinched.

 

 

 

Sebastian even finds himself privately wondering if Jim is 'burning bridges' with the organisation they moulded together, a sick private corner of his mind is writhing in insecurity. What if Jim isn't coming back? What if he's 'burned' Sebastian? What if he's off elsewhere to start up a new life with John fucking Watson!

 

 

 

With a growl he curses the fact that Jim has permanently disabled the GPS on his phone, fearing official tracking, which coincidently hampers him tracking Jim too. 'Sometimes physically checking is better.' So he calls up a list of agents in Spain and rousts them all to find out where Jim is. Leaning back in his chair he worries a bit about sending a 'passive probe' after his boss, but what else is he supposed to do? Sebastian has deep concerns for the safety and security of their little 'empire of dirt', and if Jim was here, Sebastian is certain he'd be asking him to do it.

 

 

 

Thrusting the problems aside he gets back to running said empire in Jim's stead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going 'dark' is reference to a lack of communication or a trail of where the person is.
> 
>  
> 
> 'Ghost surveillance' is supposed to be bugs and hidden cameras, but we all know Sherlock would find them ;)
> 
>  
> 
> To be 'burning bridges' means one is cutting themself off from an op gone horribly wrong.
> 
>  
> 
> Similarly with 'burned' though that is only the one person, and they are usually killed.
> 
>  
> 
> A 'passive probe' is a random uninvolved agent meeting up with someone on the job to assess the op.
> 
>  
> 
> And 'empire of dirt' is a nod to NIN and a dear friend of mine who's life is in. The shitter AGAIN, god she deserves so much more in life!


	19. Just See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, another chapter! A super huge thank you to my partner who not only (without knowing it) exposed a HUGE flaw in my story of Harry and gave me ideas (again without knowing it) of how to reinvent it, make Harry bad-ass and still make all the points I wanted. He was also honest when I asked him if I should put in some extra stuff (can you guess what?). It was wonderful to have an opinion other than my own to work off of ;) And this chapter finally gives us the reason behind John going sooo deep into his cover.

It took a good twenty minutes and two crisp, cold, Pastis for Mary to stop giving John the patented 'look of dire irritation' - less than the 'look of death...just - by then she was fiddling with the ice in her empty glass and smiling at everyone else. 

 

 

 

"Well now that I'll not be relieving you on the drive for at least four hours, what do you have to say for yourself?"

 

 

 

John clears his throat, "Six hours actually, especially as you've not had anything to eat beyond sugary treats today."

 

 

 

Placing her glass on the café table with a thump, "And who's bloody fault is that now? I thought we were stopping in ROME to eat and now we are in France. France John, I missed three quarters of Italy!" Looking away and fiddling with the glass - making the ice chunks clink together - she lets out a deep sigh.

 

 

 

John senses she is relenting in her anger, a bit, and presses his advantage, "Look, I just can't face it, sleeping I mean. Just thinking about closing my eyes makes me break out in a cold sweat. So I kept driving, I know I should have woken you and discussed it with you, but honestly we're both shattered and you needed to stay asleep as long as possible!" He puts up his hands in a placating manner, "I know I need it too, but I couldn't, can't, not until we get back, then I'll sleep a week, I promise."

 

 

 

Mary nods once, "Did you text Moran?"

 

 

 

Looking a bit more ill John pulls out Moriarty's mobile, "Yes. Told him we were chasing, well... me, up the western coast of Spain. At which point he got a wee bit stroppy and I had to put the fear of Moriarty into him." Thumbing through the texts he reads off what he sent back to the man they're duping.

 

 

 

"You think you know everything do you? Ignorant cunt. I've been doing this on my own for decades. You think you know every contact and resource I have on this planet? Don't strain yourself trying to figure it out and don't bother bootlicking in text. You can do your licking when I get back."

 

 

 

"Wow, that's pretty intense John." she looks at him askance, "Does it freak you out to write things like that?"

 

 

 

John looks into his large glass of cola for an extensive moment, "No. I know that doing this, writing such drivel and sending it to Moran is keeping him from attacking Sherlock. That is something I will always be able to do, no matter how distasteful."

 

 

 

Leaning over her empty glass she stares John in the eye with such an intensity that he cannot look away, "But where does it stop John? Is this how Moriarty started? By just scaring someone?" 

 

 

 

"Maybe, when he was in middle school, but Mary I don't want to do it, and I won't ever again, that's the difference. If Moriarty did start like this he kept on because he enjoyed it, and the power it has, I don't. That is what makes it different."

 

 

 

 No longer thinking about the message on the mobile, Mary watches as John's face draws in, his brows draw together and down, his chin sinking a fraction more toward his chest. To her limited knowledge of the man across the café table from her it seems as though some dark thoughts are overcoming him. 

 

 

 

With a sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach, Mary wonders a moment if she has caused this weight on John's mood given her questions about his actions. Knowing she can't guess what he's thinking she resolves to just ask. Nodding curtly she dives in, "John? Where have your thoughts gone?" a touch of pink staining her cheeks, "If it isn't too personal to ask that is."

 

 

 

John watches the embarrassment evident in his companion for a few moments before reassuring her. "I was just thinking about how much I miss my sister Harry."

 

 

 

"Have you heard from her since you parted ways in Italy?"

 

 

 

His face tightening, John nods, "Yes, sort of. She didn't send it to me, but she did have a message for me, but that was years ago."

 

 

 

 

Mary is leaning closer now,"What do you mean that was years ago John? Where's Harry?"

 

 

 

Rubbing his hand up and down over his left leg, as the phantom pain stabs sharp and deep, John flashes a fake smile, full of teeth, bitterness, and despair. "I was staying in a cheep hotel near the Olympic park. I'd changed names again, was paying cash for everything, but I guess they tracked me some other way. I half think Moriarty had people at passport control in the Münich airport, because he found me pretty quickly. But again it was just a delivery, he was hoping to send me running scared and careless." 

 

 

 

Looking down at his foot John toys with a few small pebbles, trying to distract himself from what is about to come up; surfacing in his memories like a leviathan of pain and horror. "There was a flash drive in the package, with a video on it. I was worried it was some kind of sick thing, like before, or footage of Sherlock in the shower, something like that you know. Thinking it was Jim flaunting the fact I've left Sherlock vulnerable to his attack, you understand? So I watched it. 

 

 

 

 

His voice a shivery timber of anguish, "I didn't learn anything of his plans, but I did learn what a bastard he is. He had Harry. Boasted about how quickly he picked her up, that she hadn't even made it to Sark before he had her. All of this explained over time lapse photography of my sister being hung up suspended from manacles in the middle of a room, her feet just barely brushing the floor."

 

 

 

"Then the video slowed to normal speed as she was beaten, electrocuted and hosed down with cold water." there is a drawn out, uncomfortable silence at the table until Mary clears her throat.

 

 

 

"You can tell me John, you know that." Looking at him with an expression of encouragement in the upward tilt of her eyebrows and small, unpatronising, smile.

 

 

 

"I know, you have listened to me spewing horrors all day, but this is the final one. The end of Moriarty's deeds before we met." for a long moment they look at each other. A waiter comes by and asks them, in heavily accented english, if they would like anything else. Mary gives him some cash and a look that clearly states, 'we need privacy', with a nod the waiter pockets the excess money she hands over separately and disappears.

 

 

 

John breaths once deeply in and out, then he fixes Mary with hard eyes, the true horror still to come from his mind. "Harry was such a trouper," he whispers, "she's had her fair share of knock arounds, but nothing at all like this. It was a while after the explosion in the hotel so she was healed up, but only just. But there was a large scar running down her chest where they presumably opened her up, in theatre, to fix the broken sternum."

 

 

 

"She's smart too, my sister was the type to give as good as she got, especially verbally, but not this time. She was still and quiet as a mouse," his mouth twisting with the bitter taste of this memory, "when she could help it that is, the whole time they were trying to elicit a response from her. Then the super star came, Moriarty swanned on screen like the full on diva he is, I mean was, and started asking my sister what she wanted to tell me."

 

 

 

Shaking his head a bit, John straightens in pride, "For the longest time Harry held it in, didn't budge, no mater what wound or bruise the maniac was prodding. Then suddenly she started mumbling something under her breath and I really couldn't tell what it was, neither could Moriarty. He cussed her out some and in the next moments, from his responses to her, I could understand she seemed to be saying that she couldn't talk any louder."

 

 

 

"Then Moriarty steps back, scanning her to see if he can suss out if she's lying." A flicker of remembered fear shadows his eyes, "I, at this point, started worrying about her having re-injuring her chest, maybe a bone fragment has punctured her lung this time and I think Moriarty was thinking the same."

 

 

 

"Harry was breathing funny, short shuddery breaths, that couldn't have been getting anything in her lungs. There was blood on her lips, but her face was so bashed up it could have had a more benign source. Time stretched out and she didn't change behaviour; he must have been waiting to see if she passed out from hyperventilating or something, but she didn't." casually, belying the serious nature of their conversation, John leans back in his chair a bit as he talks.

 

 

 

"He asked her what she had said again, moving closer than before, her muscles were lax and Moriarty couldn't get a beed on what she was up to. But I knew," smirking, John's voice takes on a sinister humour, "she was playing possum, she was the queen of playing possum. Important skills for someone who's had as many twists and turns in her life as she has. Feeling sick I watched as her arms suddenly tense," he pitches forward in his seat again and begins gesturing with his hands seemingly acting out Harry's movements, "fingers locking into the links on her manacles and baring up her weight that had been completely lax. Her legs snap up and she knocks Moriarty off his balance with her knees on the way up. He swerved to the side trying to turn away from her and get out of her reach. But damn," he actually grins at Mary, "all the years of play fighting with me, not to mention the self defence moves I taught her once I completed basic, made her more than a force to recon with!"

 

 

 

Carrying on the narrative with this dark glee and pride John reels her into the next few minutes of description, his tempo quick and evocative. "Moriarty thought she was the weak link in our family," his shoulder rises and drops once contemplatively, "and in some ways she was, but protecting family brings out the best in a Watson and she held to that maxim with tenacity! With her right foot she nudged his shoulder pushing him more into the spin, her left - her dominant side, she dropped the knee out, like she was sitting cross-legged in mid air. Stretching out her left foot in a parody of an arm's hugging position. Moriarty fetches up against that inner knee, and quick as a flash her other foot pops over the far shoulder and she pulls him back toward herself tightening her thighs around his neck. There is a flurry of movement as guards level weapons at her screaming at her to 'let the boss go'."

 

 

 

"By this point the camera isn't quite pointed at what's happening, it's slightly down and off to the left, knocked there by the man filming running to try and help." John shakes his head in amusement, "Moriarty's face had turned a bit purple by then and Harry was shouting to be heard. The stand off continued for breathless moments then suddenly I could hear Harry. She was saying something about letting Moriarty go if she could send her message."

 

 

 

"So the thugs quiet down and Harry, struggling wildly with the thrashing man between her legs, looks into the crooked camera, smiles and says, 'I always knew I was a black widow Jonny! I want you to disappear little brother, go to fucking ground so these assholes can't take revenge out on you. Stay strong. Hold fast.'"

 

 

 

He pauses a moment, looking anywhere but at Mary, moisture gathering along the bottom curvature of his eyes. His voice, when he forces it out has gone scraggily, "With her message sent, she shifted so the back of her calf was braced, all the way down to the heel, against his sternum and crossed the other calf over it applying three times the pressure on Moriarty's neck. With a shout of, 'I'm going to take you with me you filthy raping...' At which point the guards all fired their weapons and my sister's body jerked in several directions at once." 

 

 

 

"The next moments were chaos as one man called for their shots to stop and then rushed forward to get the dead 'dike' - I heard that slander more than once - off their boss. They carried him away carefully and then I was left watching my sister bleed out, slightly off camera, from several gun shot wounds to her upper torso. Clearly they shot high to avoid hitting their boss. That was it, no message from Moriarty, nothing, just watching the puddle under her body grow." Quietly John leans back again, his hands falling still in his lap, forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I think NEEDS explination is 'Pastis' which is a common drink in France, especially southeastern France. Seemingly enjoyed for simmilar reasons as Pimms, it is an anis flavoured drink that was created to fill the Absinthe void when it was banned. It's yummy ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Anything else, MSG me.


	20. Knows Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week I wrote a behemoth! Yeah, kinda got away from me and it has fluff, sparse fluff, but it's the best I can do at this point in the story. Enjoy!

Mrs. Hudson bustles into the kitchen where Sherlock is seated at the far side of the table using his microscope. He does not move or look up as the demure force of nature known as Martha Hudson moves past him to put away the milk. He still does not move as she wrenches the door of the fridge open and inspects the interior of the appliance. Over her shoulder she chatters at Sherlock, who ignores her, up until she crowds into his personal space.

 

 

 

He looks up at her from his low stool with a fierce glare, "What do you want, this culture is time sensitive." Mrs. Hudson beams down at him, completely ignoring the irritated prickly comment, "You Sherlock Holmes have put the...well they look like lion or tiger claws to me, on the 'food' shelf, and it isn't double layer sealed!" 

 

 

 

The chiding remark falls well short of an actual reprimand, more in the vein of, 'oh what are you like!' as she shakes an open container under his nose. Sherlock catches a whiff of the fetid smell, which is fighting in his nose with the cotton-y-spore-ish smell of his culture. Not knowing it was coming Sherlock is helpless as his gag reflex is triggered and a look of embarrassed indignation flits across his face. 

 

 

 

The two of them stare at one another in shocked silence, as the horrible combination of smells creeps into Mrs. Hudson's nose as well. She coughs once on the inhale pulling a face and then simultaneously they break into laughter.

 

 

 

"They're cougar claws," Sherlock sputters out between chuckles, "A Biology researcher at the University of Calgary found an interesting pathogen in the claws and I deduced it was the poison that killed the young boy in Lestrade's case. I'm just attempting to see if the pathogen can be harvested and grown artificially."

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson, still laughing gently, though somewhat less now the topics turned to explaining a death, "And why was it open? Needed circulating air to increase it's potency?"

 

 

 

Sherlock laughs even harder and grabs up a lid off the table, "Not at all, I forgot where I put the lid!" He passes it to his landlady, who snaps the lid into place and puts it right back in the fridge where it was. After all, the 'experiment' shelf is full and there's plenty of room on the 'food' shelf.

 

 

 

"Oh and Sherlock?" she queries as she's leaving the room again, headed for the stairs down, "I'll expect you down at mine for tea tonight, be a love and set a reminder on your phone for it, would you?" 

 

 

 

"Yes Mrs. Hudson." Without really looking away from the slide Sherlock opens his phone and sets an alarm for seventeen hundred, that way if he doesn't notice half an hour of the alarm going off Mrs. Hudson will holler up and snap him out of his thoughts.

 

 

 

A passing thought snags his attention and Sherlock stands from the table, forgetting the slide, but quickly putting the culture back in the bar fridge installed for this purpose on the cabinet. His attention already on something else he forgets to turn off the light on the microscope as he wanders off.

 

 

 

The thought that plagues him is 'landlady', his brain, having just used that moniker to describe her minutes ago, has decided it is unsuitable. Thus he must find an alternative. Who is Martha Hudson to him? His newly realised understanding of his family seems to want her to be a part of it. No that's too mild a term, it demands he recognise how important she is. His own mother 'Mummy' is a distant woman, her professional musical career was coming into full swing when he was just a baby. This led to a string of nannies, wet nurses and governesses which raised Sherlock in her stead. Not having that close baby bond, coupled with extensive absences all through his childhood being chiefly responsible for their lack of closeness.

 

 

 

'But then, how does that explain Mrs. Hudson?' he asks himself. 'Why is there such a closeness with her. I don't resent the normal closeness, that I usually abhor with anyone else, I almost look forward to greeting her with a hug.'

 

 

 

A sudden flash of insight tells him, she's what one would call an emotionally 'honest' person and Sherlock can believe she cares about him without reservation. A memory comes to him then from the depths of his mind palace. It's a few moments of being carried around on his mother's hip (I must be about three, maybe close to four, so 1984) another memory is brought up at that (Mummy was a success, though she was experiencing some bad press at the public discovering of how much time she spent away from her small children), it dovetails seamlessly into the first as Sherlock hears Mycroft whispering in his ear, 'She's our mother, look like it! If you smile and play with her I'll let you see my books!' 

 

 

 

Sherlock remembering smiling and being as cute and playful as he could given he wanted to see his brother's books! He also remembered his mother smiling down at him like no other time before, or since. She looked at him directly in his eyes, held him close and chatted politely with the people snapping picture after picture of the concert pianist with a toddler in her arms and young boy playing quietly with a wooden train at her feet (Mycroft had wanted to be reading some book or other, but Mummy said no, it was too elite of a behaviour) PR gold. Obviously the perfect mum. Though they weren't there after the interview, during which Sherlock had fallen asleep against her arm and was woken with a kurt, "Irene! Where the devil are you, this little lump has put my arm to sleep. God what on earth is he fed? He weighs a tone!"

 

 

 

The nanny replies with, "The leading specialists suggest children should be allowed to eat as much as they wish, to deal with growth spurts and the like. I admit he has wonderful round cheeks and feels like he's lined in gold, but the last time that happened he shot up two inches."

 

 

 

"Really?" Sherlock's mother asked her tone lacking any interest, "Well I don't agree, you keep at that and I'll have another fat child, and I refuse to let that happen!" gesturing angrily with one hand at Mycroft, who was in no way overweight, just a bit hefty.

 

 

 

Two things happened in that second, one, that there was a flash of a camera. Which belonged to a reporter and photographer team who gotten lost on the way out and wound up doubling back to see the sham of the caring mother exposed.

 

 

 

The second was that it was locked into Sherlock's young impressionable mind that he should never look the way he did then. At a healthy child's weight, Sherlock suddenly felt grossly fat. So no matter how much his nanny cried, and she did, seeing the lovely round cheeked child starve himself. From that moment on Sherlock refused to eat more than a fraction of his meals.

 

 

 

As the memory fades back into the depths of the mind palace Sherlock nods to himself, 'Well of course with such a duplicitous action by the person I should be able to trust most, I'm unable to have a mother/son bond.'

 

 

 

But again his mind reminds him that Martha Hudson has never done or said anything she didn't mean. When she's happy with him she glows with pride at having him around, hands out hugs as often as he'll allow and feeds him up with all sorts of things he secretly covets. When she's mad at him, even unflappable Sherlock takes notice and hides, offering up some token of apology as soon as he can. Martha Hudson never says one thing but secretly means another, she is always 'honest' and that is something Sherlock has come to bank on.

 

 

 

'It is right that she assume the roll. She has no children and I don't have a mother, in any real sense of reality, so we fit together. If only John was here, then it would be perfect.' At that Sherlock is happy, he has it sorted out, Mrs. Hudson is his mother and he is happy for her to be such. His mind content now that he's figured that puzzle out (really, I was being almost as stupid as Anderson for not seeing her value) he starts thinking about those few days he had of happiness with John. A smile gracing his lips he spends the rest of the afternoon thinking about his one time blogger and lover.

 

 

 

xxxxxxx

 

 

 

Greg was staring sightlessly at the papers in front of him contemplating another coffee. His favoured beverage tea had been abandoned months ago for coffee with it's caffeine punch! Noting he's thinking in exclamation points again, 'maybe' he thinks to himself,  'I've had too much coffee already...'

 

 

 

His mobile chirps cheerily in his pocket and Greg scowls as he picks up the call checking who it is first; Donovan. A torrent of chatter, hoops and hollers pour into his ear as he, wincing, shouts down the line, "Hello? Donovan? What do you want?"

 

 

 

The sound dulls away with a thunk and Sally urgently whispers, "Just a mo." There is a clatter of spring mounted doors being opened and then water being turned full on. 'Ah hiding in the loo from the noise of the pub. Smart, wonder why she's being so cautious though? Really running water while she talks?!?'

 

 

 

"Simon," he comes to attention immediately, "don't say a bloody word, you are a cad and a heel. After all I've been through I thought I could trust you, but we all know how that worked out! I'm going out with Angela and we are going to have some fun! Don't wait up I might not come home." then the line goes dead.

 

 

 

With an inward hiss of breath, "Shit." Greg texts Mycroft quickly that Sally is 'on the ground' to which he gets the response that he's almost home and to decipher the code. So Greg gets down to just that, grabbing up a slip of paper and writing out the words: Simon, don't say a bloody word, you are a cad and a heel. After all I've been through I thought I could trust you, but we all know how that worked out! I'm going out with Angela and we are going to have some fun! Don't wait up I might not come home.

 

 

 

Quickly underlining the code words and shifting them about he gets: 'you don't say a word, you could trust, we worked out Angela, wait up, come home.' Having done this he opens his mobile to the GPS app where he has all his people listed under the 'find my mobile' list.  With a freverent prayer that she was being really paranoid and he wouldn't find her in the gutter in the morning he accesses the tracking on her mobile.

 

 

 

While he sits there waiting, once again contemplating coffee or tea, the front door to the flat opens with a crash and seconds later Sherlock strides into view, trailing Mycroft.

 

 

 

"Where is she?" Sherlock demands in his usual acerbic manner and Greg just hands him the mobile that is still 'thinking'. 

 

 

 

"I was about to make some tea, anyone else?" Greg turns to see the Holmses looking at him as though he's sprouted another head. Sherlock turns derisively away while Mycroft's face holds a touch of reproach to it, "Gregory we have people here to do that, who would think you do not trust them to do it properly if you did it yourself."

 

 

 

As though he's just become aware of it himself he takes in the dark wood panelled office they are in, with the huge desk he's been monopolising all evening while Mycroft was at a meeting, and the sumptuous furnishings, any one of which cost more than his settee set and TV combined!

 

 

 

Mycroft watches the DI stand there with a shocked expression on his face for a moment. Deep inside where no one, well other than maybe Sherlock, can see Mycroft is jumping up and down clapping. His 'pet DI' (as Mycroft has begun to think of Lestrade) is getting more and more comfortable in Mycroft's penthouse flat. He forgot there were servants, when last month he was deriding Mycroft for having them, saying it was elitist and classist and how could he convey such outdated ideals. Yet now he just blinks...that's one step forward at least.

 

 

 

Clearing his throat to jar Gregory out of his stupor, he smiles, "I'll buzz for a tray, shall I?"

 

 

 

xxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sally looks across the table at her 'friend' all night she's been talking about her fictional one night stand with 'Simon' laying the ground work down well. After all, if things go pear shaped she wants to be able to call 'Simon' and give him another piece of her mind. When ever she's been the one getting the drinks she's been switching them out for low to no alcohol versions while keeping up appearances that she's had as many as Angela.

 

 

 

For her part Angela has been quiet, just nodding in all the right places, playing the perfect female listening companion. 'Enough of that mate, your turn to talk.' she thinks to herself as she passes over the next beer. "Okay Ang, I've spilled my guts enough about that arse, I need some good news, do you have any?"

 

 

 

Looking very confused at having to provide information suddenly Angela blinks a moment, "What do you mean, good news?"

 

 

 

Sally leans her head back and sighs over dramatically, "Tell me you have a guy who isn't a complete Neanderthal. Tell me about him, I need hope, Simon destroyed mine."

 

 

 

With a coy smile Angela slides closer to the edge of her seat crowding Sally a bit, "Well..."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxx

 

 

 

After three hours of the three men being in one room together, with all the papers now neatly stacked and filed, with Sherlock staring at Greg's mobile waiting for her blip to move, with many cups of tea, biscuits, a light supper and (with much teasing of Mycroft by Sherlock) a nice venetian cake for pudding. Finally they all sat by the fire and went over what they knew of Moran being in the city.

 

 

 

They knew he was indeed in London and probably had more than one bolt hole outside of the city as well as in it. They still had no real idea of what Moran looked like, other than that he must be tall and able to pull off Sherlock's look with minor modifications. Sherlock went on at quite a length about how even a very observant person can be fooled by hiding something in plain sight and the merits of movie type prosthetics. Greg was half convinced he was about to flounce off to prove the point by transforming himself into an old man or something when Anthea opened the door without her customary knock.

 

 

 

As one they turned to look at the woman who usually avoided eye contact, working constantly on her blackberry screen, but this time she was staring right back at them. "Mr. Holmes, sir, I have just received a coded message from a burner phone in France that I think is of import."

 

 

 

Sherlock jumps up and grabs the small smart phone away from Anthea, who just smiles and looks to her boss. Mycroft spares his brother an irritated look and then waves her back out of the room. "Sherlock, must you be so rude! Give me the mobile, you don't know the code."

 

 

 

Sherlock snorts, "Really," his tone just dripping with condescension, 'how are the twins? I heard the one with straight hair got it set permanent to look more like his brother. Do you know what salon he went to? I saw a picture and it was amazing how natural it looked. Might be in town in a month or so, care to get together?'

 

 

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes at Sherlock's childish behaviour, while Greg just looks confused. Sherlock looks at Greg expectantly for a moment then sighs in irritation, "You really are thick." and keeps talking over Greg's abrupt sound of indignation, "The message is from John, obviously, the twin comment relates to Moran trying to frame me in various crimes by committing them himself. The comment about getting into town is John telling us his ETA, he hopes to be here," he pauses checking the time stamp, "within the day." 

 

 

 

Mycroft hides an actual smile behind his hands, fingers pressed to his lips obscuring the expression. He can't help but feel joy as his bother seems to come alive in front of him, his eyes sparkling in a way only a clever puzzle or dead body had ever engendered before. 

 

 

 

Greg breaks the moment of silence, "Right, I get the twins thing, but how can you say he'll be here in a day from the message saying he'd be here in a month?"

 

 

 

Mycroft stomps on his glee and interrupts Sherlock's immanent rant over Gregory's intelligence, "A common code is to multiply time, so a day becomes a minute, a week an hour, a month..." He finishes with a flourish of his hand encouraging Gregory to finish the sentence. 

 

 

 

But instead Sherlock growls in irritation, "Would you two just get over this horrible sexual tension and either sate it or forget about it, your making me ill!" the insuing clammer of denials is cut short by the phone beeping again. "Shut up both of you, I'm always right." with his thumb he opens the screen Anthea has left unlocked for them and views the photo sent attached to the message. "Well here we go, a picture of Moran." 

 

 

 

They all crowd around the mobile looking at Sherlock's doppelgänger, "Well that's it then," says Greg gleefully, "with that we can circulate pictures of him and have him in a couple days!"

 

 

 

Mycroft just shakes his head, "We know one mole in your department, I'm sad to say it, but there is likely a second at least. No, now is the time for the long play I think."

 

 

 

Sherlock flops down in a chair, "What have you been doing Mycroft?"

 

 

 

Ignoring his brother again, "When we had our...accident with Harry, the people across the street from you were given a sudden loan by their bank. Making them able to buy a house in one of the nicer outer burros of London. The owner of the building was bought out and the house has been left to go derelict over the last years." Sherlock nods curtly, "Some of the Network live in there at all times." Looking from Greg's irritated face to Sherlock's expectant one, "The property has been held empty and I'm sure Moran knows about it by now. I don't think he can ignore the opportunity."

 

 

 

Greg sounds off with a humourless snort of laughter, "Yeah the opportunity to shoot your brother in the head you mean." Sherlock, who had been browsing through the smart phone while Mycroft detailed the logical plan and Lestrade got his back up about it. Starts as another picture is sent from the burner mobile, the note at the bottom: "Just doing a bit of touring, but not much left to see, maybe I'll get there in half a month instead. You still up for company?"

 

 

 

Completely ignoring the men arguing over his life Sherlock stares intently at the picture, which is a shot in the dark of a roadway with a set of signs indicating Nice France is a few hours away. John was coming home and he would hold him in his arms again, soon. 

 

 

 

A sudden bath of ice in his veins as Sherlock is suddenly afraid, very much, base instinct afraid for his mate, and what may happen to him in the next twelve hours. "Mycroft! How can you be sure Anthea's phone hasn't been hacked? What if this has been intercepted?!?"

 

 

 

Called out of his argument with Gregory by the - for Sherlock - screamingly panicked question Mycroft looks down at his brother. Gone is the twinkle in his eye, he's no longer stretched out indolently in the chair, but sitting upright pitched forward in the seat with a frightened expression on his face. Mycroft feels compelled to actually comfort his brother, this still being a rather awkward procedure he quietly asks, "Gregory can you give us a minute?"

 

 

 

Knowing why this has been asked the astute DI backs toward the door, "Yeah, no problem, I should really have 'Simon' check in on Donovan anyways, just be a mo."

 

 

 

Waiting until the sound of footsteps retreats down the hall Mycroft then turns to his brother and tries on a gentile smile, "I can understand how worried you are at this precise moment," laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder firmly, "but please remember this is Anthea we are talking about. After the debacle with Harry she has cut herself off from the world, no mates, no lovers, barely keeps in contact with her family. You will notice that is NOT her regular mobile and deduce from that it is only used to contact John. She keeps it concealed on her person at all times, so no one has had a chance to touch it to hack." Watching the distress fade in his brother's eyes Mycroft went for one more. 

 

 

 

"Lastly, if you believe that Moriarty and by extension Moran have access to PRISM*, it would take me, with the same contacts more than 24hrs to pinpoint the needle in a haystack Anthea's mobile represents." His smile sliding into something a bit sly now, "I think if you are careful anything under a total of six texts will go unnoticed. Provided you stick to the code of course."

 

 

 

The anxious energy flowing away under Mycroft's assertions Sherlock looks at the mobile with a dawning look of hope and joy. Patting the shoulder still under his hand twice Mycroft turns and leaves his little brother alone to contemplate his next message.

 

 

 

In the hall Greg frustratedly dials again and gets nothing but Donovan's answer message. "Bollocks!" hisses out of his lips as Mycroft appears beside him. With a raised eyebrow, "I take is she is not picking up." Greg shakes his head no, "Well, why don't we put her number into the GPS that's linked up to the city blueprints and send someone to go check on her."

 

 

 

Relief flooding him Greg unknowingly flashes Mycroft a dazzling smile, "Thanks Myc, I'm really worried about Sally." With a gentle hand on his lower back, Mycroft's mind clouded by that look, he guides Greg back into the office. Without removing the soft warm pressure from the top edge of Greg's belt he gently pushes him in the direction of the desk.

 

 

 

"Good Lord you two." coming from Sherlock snaps them both out of the spiralling moment of touch and submission and they get down to work. Moments later Mycroft can say Sally's mobile is still in the last club they went to and has dispatched an agent in plain clothes to see if Sally is with her mobile.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sally laughs at some inane joke that Angela had made and offered to get the next round when a tall slender man slides into the booth with three drinks. Angela wraps her arms around the man's neck and proceeds to start mouthing him like he's edible. Angela was apparently quite drunk and quiet sexually charged, which with a smile Sally admits isn't shocking! They had just spent the better part of an hour talking about his prowess in bed; well assuming this is the infamous 'Ian'. Which going by the reception and description of the tall dark haired man across from her, Sally's pretty sure it is him.

 

 

 

Trying not to look like she's looking at the two people across from her revealing in their PDAs Sally does indeed look. What she sees sends a fission of fear down her spine. Ian isn't as involved as Angela is in this affectionate outburst, could be he isn't happy she's this drunk, but that's not likely, his eyes are somehow cold and void of anything one would expect of a bloke mid snog. There's also something...familiar about the guy's body shape, harking Sally's mind back to part of the conversation earlier. When Angela told her that Ian was skinnier than usual right now for work and that she couldn't wait till he bulked back up again.

 

 

 

The fission of cold fear gathers a few friends as Sally realises who else Ian reminds her of, his hair slicked back by an impressive amount of fell and dark brown eyes do nothing to dispel the sudden urge to call him 'freak'. 

 

 

 

Calmly, slowly Sally shifts a couple times, having long ago perfected the 'I'm drunk and need a wee' dance she is careful to concentrate on that alone. Not the fierce clawing dread that she is sitting across from one of the two men they have been tracking for years!

 

 

 

"Ange Hun, while you two say hello, I'm off to t'loo, be right back." Not waiting for a response, or for 'Ian' to get his limbs free, she's up and about to dash across the dance floor when an incredibly handsome, muscular man at least half a decade younger than her sidles up with an apologetic face, "Sally love, sorry I was stuck under cover and couldn't call you. It wasn't a one night stand for me either, I just got dumped into a case!"

 

 

 

Reaching past her the adonis holds out his hand to shake, "Hey I'm the cad and heel Simon, who almost broke Sally's heart!" Not waiting for either of them to shake his hand, he retracts and curls it around a swooning Sally's waist. "I hope you don't mind if I take her for a dance." With that, he spins Sally around and they take off for the dance floor.

 

 

 

As they begin to dance the mysterious stranger pulls her up against his body to whisper, "I am your extraction team, take out your mobile and text your contact that 'we are going to go make up and you'll see her on Monday' right after this song. Understood?" Sally manages a nod and looks back toward her table.

 

 

 

Angela doesn't look as happy as she did minutes ago with her lips all over 'Ian'. Who also looks rather...well 'put out' seems to mild, but the expression isn't visually much 'louder'. Still Sally's gut reaction to the guy magnifies and she has to harness all her bluffing skills to give Angela a cheery wave before turning back to her dancing partner.

 

 

 

Inside of five minutes Sally is safely in a car speeding towards her boss while talking to him, "I swear it was him Lestrade. I'll explain it all again for the...geniuses. See you in five!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRISM is a 'big brother' type program being run by the US government. If you don't know what I mean by 'big brother' (other than reality TV) then google George Orwell 1984 and read it fool! ;)


	21. Making Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is the long awaited chapter, sorry for the delay the chapter kinda took over! I was just going to do a little piece, but my brain suddenly thought 'Now's time to chat up with EVERYONE!' So it kinda took me a bit longer. Enjoy.

John and Mary are just getting back into the car when the text alert on John's burner mobile goes off. Stopping mid sentence as his throat constricts painfully John wrenches the mobile out of his pocket and falls into his seat to stare at the screen.

 

 

 

"John? What is it John? Has Moran figured us out?"

 

 

 

The dull panic in her voice pops him out of his daze, "No, it's okay Mary, it's the phone Anthea gave me. I texted her earlier and I've just gotten a reply..." his voice fades off at the end as his attention is focused on the device in his hand. Then with a noticeable tremor in his voice he reads, "I don't know what salon he went to, which for me is surprising, but he's not been around much for me to get it out of him. I look forward to your visit, a bit more than Mummy, but that's not hard for the reckless youth. I figure I've got a few texts before she figures out I've pinched her mobile. How have you been? We've missed you."

 

 

 

There is silence in the car for a long, long while, then Mary places a hand on John's calming the shaking a bit, "John, that doesn't sound like code to me, it... seems so... personal somehow."

 

 

 

John pulls away slowly clutching the mobile to himself, "It was Sherlock, it had to have been with those statements, not understanding why he hadn't sussed something out yet, the talk of it being Mummy's mobile. Given in my text he was one of two twins I intimated were the receiver's children, it has to be him!" John sits there staring out the windscreen as Mary looks worriedly on.

 

 

 

Privately she wonders if this is just wishful thinking, but after a moment she realises it doesn't matter. If it is, then hopefully it will give John the drive he needs to get through to London. If not, hopefully Sherlock will have the good sense to distract him should he ask after it. Either way the boost to John's mood is infectious and Mary eventually finds herself smiling as John's fingers fly over the screen of the phone. He does so as he reads out loud what he's typing to Mary.

 

 

 

"Reckless youth indeed! Let's see what we get up to when I'm there, hmm? I well, travel takes it out of you, and seriously I could sleep for a year once I arrive, but there are worse things. I've gotten to see some beautiful sights in the cradle of civilisation, can't wait to tell you. PS-Why don't you just text me from your own phone now you have my new number?"

 

 

 

Flickering a look at his friend out of the corner of his eye he registers that she is nodding emphatically at him as he presses the send button. 

 

 

 

With a self-important tone, "And you are going to sleep John Watson, if I have to bully your Sherlock into drugging you, or not. You will sleep!"

 

 

 

John nods back at her and smiles as a new text appears, "Of course I will Mary." then he opens and reads the new text chuckling under his breath, "Now that would be boring, why would I do that? Okay I will once she catches me out, but till then it will be too much fun."

 

 

 

Still laughing he types back, "Uh-huh, reckless youth indeed! I have to get back to sleep so I can start out early, text me tomorrow morning?" Then waits quietly till a response of "Of course." comes back in.

 

 

 

Then with a whoop and smile John starts up the car and starts down the dual carriageway at the maximum speed he can get away with. With any luck when Sherlock texted him again he'd be close to Paris.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sebastian waited till his man on the door texted him that Donovan was away, then he shoves Angela off him roughly, "Your bloody well loosing yourself in your cover, remember I don't shag agents, so try to act a bit less like a cougar on the prowl!"

 

 

 

Hunching in on herself a bit Angela blinks back tears, "Sorry boss, I'm a bit drunk and I know it doesn't excuse my behaviour. But you know what? It is important I can submerge myself in my cover so well, because Sally is no fool and she'd have seen through everything otherwise!"

 

 

 

Not replying to her valid comment Sebastian shifts gears again, "Why are you so drunk anyways? Haven't you been switching your drinks out?"

 

 

 

Nodding a bit wollenly, "Yes boss, but even a quarter of the number of ciders we drank would ruin a girl! I don't know how Sally did it, we drank the same amount, I went to the bar the same number of times she did... She will have a massive hangover in the morning, that I know for sure!"

 

 

 

Standing and beckoning her to follow Sebastian effects to have not noticed her shoulders slumping and her eyes going big and round, tears starting to gather in the corners. Mentally rolling his eyes, he steels himself to glad handling the woman again the next day. Trying not to hold himself completely rigid he leads her out into the relative quiet of the street before he starts talking again.

 

 

 

"So you must have told her a bit about me since I didn't need to introduce myself."

 

 

 

Angela trips up a curb as she hastily spits out, "Yes, well I listened to her whinging all night about that Simon of hers and suddenly she started asking questions about a man in my life. I knew you were having my conversations listened to so I gave her what she wanted."

 

 

 

Sebastian snorts, "And she wanted to listen you wax poetic about our 'loving, romantic, and highly sexual' relationship?"

 

 

 

Turning a slightly darker shade of red Angela maintains a stiff upper lip, "I had to! She begged me to tell her about the type of man that wouldn't use someone and keep her dangling. So I invented our relationship, sure! But I did it to keep her on the hook! If you can't see that, too bad, just keep thinking I'm a sad weak woman desperate for your cock!!!"

 

 

 

A smug smile on his lips he pats her heartily on the shoulder, "Good, I'm glad you have substance still. You've been playing the meek female copper so long I almost thought this part of you no longer existed! Well done you. Don't forget who you are talking to though, in my place the big boss wouldn't even wait for you to finish talking, he'd have had me shoot you straight off."

 

 

 

Used to this rapid shift from praise to threatening Angela just smiles and asks, "So what's our next move boss?"

 

 

 

"I'm still running the numbers figuring that out... Something is bothering me Angela, like I'm being stalked. There is, of course, no one there, but I still have that feeling. A nagging thought that something doesn't quite fit. Can you think of anything that might have felt like that tonight?"

 

 

 

They are safely ensconced in the jag and flowing through London traffic when Angela pops back out of her contemplation, Sebastian had actually thought she had fallen asleep when she speaks. "When Simon arrived was there a fraction of a second when Sally stared as well?"

 

 

 

Sebastian shrugs it off, "She was surprised he came having thought he wasn't interested in her."

 

 

 

Angela nods, "Yeah, but I'm pretty sure during her complaining she said something about Simon having silver grey hair."

 

 

 

His dark eyes narrowing sharply, "Are you sure about that?"

 

 

 

"I think so, the night is a bit fuzzy, damn ciders!"

 

 

 

Stifling a growl of irritation Sebastian barks at the driver, "Take us to the nearest A&E!" Turning to Angela he issues her orders, "When we get in there I want you to play up your drunkenness. Act really silly and horny, kind of how you were at the club when I arrived." Pulling a small black case out of a hidden compartment in the back of the seat in front of him he removes a syringe and picks up her right hand.

 

 

 

Noting the wary, tense posture of her, Sebastian sighs, "It's just a shot to help bare out my story to the hospital." With that he slides her costume jewelry ring up to her knuckle and injects her between the fingers. Sliding the ring back down he further covers the discreet location of the injection.

 

 

 

"We are going to go in there a loving couple scared and frightened by an occurrence at the bar we just left. On a return trip from the bog I saw a hooded person drop something in your drink. Unfortunately, being a Friday night it was packed and I couldn't get across to you before you drank most of it. We left straight away to come here and you have been getting more and more sleepy on the way." 

 

 

 

Putting the case away he smiles humourlessly at her, "In a few minutes you'll be on the way to sober."

 

 

 

Angela shudders at the cold indifference and slumps against the back of her seat. The swaying of the car amplifying the swoopy, nauseous feeling growing in her stomach as she begins to wonder exactly what was in that syringe! 

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sally sighs to herself as 'Simon' stays outside the doorway to the posh penthouse flat. She wishes he would come with her to face the Holmes brothers, but realises he probably has to deal with the older one rather a lot and so knows to avoid him if possible. Squaring her shoulders and taking another slug from the black coffee, that he sweetly had waiting for her in his car, she knocks once and then strides into the room.

 

 

 

Immediately three sets of eyes track to her and irrationally she is irritated that all of them remain professional and there isn't even a hint of an ogle at her short skirt, or at the semi transparency of the dress material.

 

 

 

Sherlock breaks the silence, "Seriously Sally, your couture outfit is lovely, but seriously who is going to stare? The gay men or your direct boss?"

 

 

 

Feeling a bit irrational still Sally sticks her tongue out at Sherlock before flopping down, somehow elegantly, regardless of the casual movement, into a chair, "So, I met Moran tonight."

 

 

 

Greg who had been silently thanking Sally for not snarking back at Sherlock watches as the other two, in their reserved Holmesian way, 'grow longer ears', tilting toward her minutely. "Why do you say that Donovan?" he prompts before Sherlock can deduce it off her.

 

 

 

"Well for starters, Angela talked about him all night, once I got her started that is, she wouldn't stop. She talked on and on about this tall dark guy who works in personal security and how he had to loose a couple stone for his job. What kind of security agent has to loose weight for a job? Seriously, it's usually bulking up for it, to look more menacing, instead."

 

 

 

Holding up a hand to stop Sherlock from starting in on her, "I'm not done. Kindly wait till I've stopped talking to deduce everything - just give me a chance to do my job - alright?!?" Sherlock, tilting his head to the side a bit nods, relenting and gesturing her to go on.

 

 

 

"Then when her bloke shows up he's almost exactly your hight, has dark brown hair which was subjected to so bloody much hair gel to keep it straight and flat I can only imagine it's just as ridiculously curly as yours. He has dark eyes, but high cheek bones and a thin lithe look about him. Christ's sake he could be a bloody body double for you in the pictures! It was almost insulting that she named him 'Ian'!"

 

 

 

No longer able to stifle himself, Sherlock chuckles, "Well clearly they both, to their error, underestimate you. But that is good, we can use that."

 

 

 

Greg sits there feeling like a thicky for a few moments, wondering why the name was so obvious. Then the subtle word play occurs to him. Ian is just the last three letters of Sebast-ian. He struggles not to react to realising it, but knows that it's a lost effort in the room with the Holmes brothers. 

 

 

 

To his relief Sherlock is producing the picture of Moran for Sally on the mobile and Mycroft was just looking at him with a small smile. Surprised not to see a smirk and condescending attitude over his inability to pick up on the name right off, Greg is surprised to see a look of fondness. Even more puzzling is how Mycroft covers it up as soon as Greg looks at him and pretends to be looking at the mobile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Seb's plot of going to A&E will have the effect I hope for, but in this case I was certain if I started looking into discovering what hospital staff would do with someone supposedly roofied, they might think I'm planning to do so or something lol! Hope you enjoined it!


	22. As It All Starts To Unravel

Sebastian stifles a growl and pastes a friendly smile on his face as the Sister coos over Angela, telling her she was so lucky he stopped her from drinking it all. If he had to hear them chatter on about the worries of having an open glass in a public place one more time he was going to murder someone!

 

 

 

Nothing was going as he had planned. They were supposed to have pumped her stomach and given him back his sober operative! But they didn't so he ordered her to go do it herself and when she said she couldn't force herself to throw up, he spat back his incredulity. Sebastian didn't believe that a woman like her hadn't forced herself to purge constantly as a teen, given the amounts he's seen her eat she'd otherwise be 16 stone, at least!

 

 

 

Course this had caused the Sisters to coo at her more, worrying her symptoms had taken a turn for the worst. Cursing his need for them to stay in character and Angela to be free from work for a couple days, he slumps in his chair and daydreams about how he was going to kill the next person to make him ill with their patronising, horridly sweet comments!

 

 

 

Suddenly his emergency tone beeps on his mobile, ignoring the Sisters fussing about not using mobiles in the hospital he checks the screen. The MSG from his Spanish operative is horrifying, 'No sightings of JM anywhere in Spain, or this JW. Checked twice.'

 

 

 

Urgently turning away he mutters, "Yes, terribly sorry, have to chase this up, I'll head outside." Then he leaves his impaired operative in the hands of the NHS and swiftly bolts to the roof, so he can see anyone who might try to overhear him.

 

 

 

'Hang the danger.' he thinks to himself and calls said operative, "What the fuck do you mean by no sightings? Did you find a cold trail, or what?"

 

 

 

The operative, to their credit, just calmly answers, "Not a spoor, nor whisper, the boss is not here."

 

 

 

Fisting his other hand in his hair and yanking, "How can that fucking well be, he's been sending me updates every twelve hours! What the hell is going on!?!" Without a word he rings off and dials up his contact on Crete. Not acknowledging the stream of profanity Sebastian just cuts in with a cold toned, "Where is the boss?"

 

 

 

What follows is a yelp and the sound of the phone hitting the ground, a few more curses and then a shaky voice is clear again. "Sorry Sir, I haven't heard from the boss since he dismissed me at the cavern. I assumed he met up with his operative and dealt with his quarry."

 

 

 

Suppressing rage Sebastian takes a calming breath before answering, "You didn't find it odd at all that he didn't come back to you for transport off of the island?"

 

 

 

"No Sir, I heard that the Italian was in town so I assumed the boss called him in to consult. Is there something wrong Sir?"

 

 

 

Sebastian is silent for a few moments before issuing orders, "Right, get yourself back to those caves and figure out what the fuck happened there. Call me as soon as you are there, yeah? Go!"  

 

 

 

Pacing back and forth across the roof Sebastian looks over the texts he's received since Jim's arrival at the cavern. That niggling feeling of being followed is blossoming into a sick roll in his gut. There is definitely something wrong!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, just a short chapter, but I felt it was the best way to torture... I mean extend the suspense... no, uhm, accurately mimic the stories experience. Yeah that third thing... Right! Hope you enjoyed it.


	23. The Frantic Pace

John glares at the road sign that mocks him, trying to force himself to stay awake longer that ten seconds, his anger with himself fuelling his passage a little bit further. Mary who had fallen asleep again wakes with a start when John swerves (at nothing) sharply.

 

"Good lord John, what was it? Did a deer jump over the road?" she flattens herself against the window blinking in an attempt to see in the blinding post-dawn light.

 

"numerisfu...iss." John forcibly clears his throat, "I...naw...ju..SHITE!" shaking his head he's not aware his hands on the steering wheel are moving in like, juddering the car back and forth a fair bit.

 

"John Hamish Watson! Pull this car over!" With a jerk and massively screeching complaints from the brakes the car comes to rest at the edge of the empty roadside.

 

"Well, I'm definitely awake now." the two chorus together and then devolve into fits of giggles. Mary pulls herself out of it first, "Alright John you are officially a danger to our continued health. I don't give a shite if you stay awake, but you are making a dog's breakfast of driving!" John has time to just gape at her as she steam rolls over him. "It's officially my turn and I know your going to say I'm not sober yet, but it's either that or we stay her till nine. At which point we'll miss the train to London."

 

John nods slowly, "How about this, you do a little sobriety test for me and if you pass we go, if not we wait half an hour and then we try again. I did make up about an hour this morning so we can afford to loose it if we must. As it is, going exactly by schedule and speed limits we will get to Calais an hour before the train, we are on target to arrive there two hours early."

 

"Really? Well why don't we wait half an hour here and then try it?" shifting about in her seat Mary seems to be assessing her bodies reaction to stimulus. "I think I'm okay now, but I'd be happier to have waited at least five hours."

 

John nods along with her, "That sounds like a sound plan." so they find a lane to an empty field and settle down to chat for a while.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Mary passes the sobriety test easily, John's almost sure the club must have been watering their drinks down, she's that sharp. So they quickly get on the road and John lightens the mood by telling stories about him stumbling over falling in love with the mad man he'd been sent to spy on.

 

They race quickly up the countryside of France from province to province, seemingly mirroring the eastern border. As they pull closer and closer to Calais quiet descends upon the car as both of them start feeling the stress pulling at them. The beautiful slopes and fields streaming by in an ever changing blur of green and gold don't even get a glance. They are targeted, honed-in, on getting to the train station.

 

John for his part keeps a steady mantra up in his mind, 'Tonight I see him, no matter what. Tonight I see him, no matter what. Tonight I see.....' and though time passes very slowly it does indeed pass. The monotony broken only by random texts from Sherlock which attempt a teenager's behaviour while still providing a message. Like, 'How long are you staying? There's a place across from Mum's that is looking for a partial let if your interested. I know the owner, could meet there and sweet talk them into renting out to you if you like. Place is a bit crap, but your ok with sleepin' rough I think.'

Even with the unavoidable slowing up around major centres and junctions signs eventually showing directions for the channel train appear and John and Mary happily follow them to their goal. At the station proper Mary jumps our and purchases two ticket from an automated teller before hopping back in and passing John the stack of tickets, fake ID and papers to read off the instructions about where they should be taking the car. They pull up into the special trucks for automobiles and sit in the cab waiting for the conductor to come round and check their tickets. 

 

A little over an hour later John texts Sherlock back, 'Going out of contact, under the mountain for a few hours. Text when we get to the other side.' then looks out the window of the little cabin with seats in their car's truck. Given it's midday during the regular work week they at alone in the truck, but that suits the two of them just fine. Mary has a great time pretending to be a bloke trying to make John laugh with horribly sexist jokes and John tries to embrace the humour and ignore the gnawing worry in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the delay, numerous things clammoured louder than my writing ;) but a calmer time should be ahead.
> 
> Ta


	24. Tick Toc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets wound a tiny bit higher ;)

Sebastian grits his teeth and tries not to shout again. As it is he's already threatened the voice on the other end with being tied up and 'serviced' by one of those gigantic bulls the Spanish like to poke holes in. He also knows it's already questionable if the man will stop gibbering about 'doing his level best' any time soon.

 

 

 

Tuning out the panicked voice he goes over what they have found out: there was a disturbance at the cavern, a large area of blood as well as stripped vegetation. The horse Jim rode up the mountain had returned home on her own and someone is sending him texts that lead a false trail through Spain. Not to mention the texts, while having Jim's typical condescension, are missing his off beat sexual flavour. Without the hyper stylised texts and their effect on him Sebastian tries to block out the rising panic in his mind.

 

 

 

'There is only one solution to this riddle Seb.' his own mind whispers to him in his lover's voice. 'You, my dear, have been replaced. I've taken John and whisked him off to a lovely hide-away to enjoy myself breaking him in, making a new you. What are you going to do about it?'

 

 

 

Stopping the simpering voice on the Skype chat with a crescendo of noise, from growling to a bellow of rage, Sebastian Moran suddenly surges to his feet and catches up a large vase on the conference table and hurls it, double handed, at the slate flooring. Muscles flexing and snapping taught with effort the impact explodes on the stone with a loud smash, water and flowers everywhere. His veins burning with the fires of rage, his mind unhinging, he grabs up the decanter of whiskey off a corner shelf and it too follows the vase, all the while his voice rising in volume till the man in the Skype window is pressing his palms to his ears in an attempt to shut Sebastian out.

 

 

 

Only moments after the outburst began the door to the room slams open and three armed people burst into the office looking for the source of the noise. Sebastian ignores everything and continues to rage while systematically smashing anything he can pick up. When he hurls a chair at the floor to ceiling windows one of the guards steps forward, "Sir! What are your orders?"

 

 

 

The loud bark from the grunt snaps Sebastian out of his trance and he freezes mid motion of hefting the next chair. Looking from one person to another and finally to the window with it's spiderweb of cracks obliterating the lower half, he drops the chair, switching gear again, "Where is Sherlock?"

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sherlock paces the length of the flat back and forth, every fourth stride bringing his right hand up, holding his mobile, to his face to see if there has been another text. The dark, blank screen mocking him. Trying to suppress it irritation he completes his circuit to the top of the stairs and hollers down, "Mrs. Hudson! What time is it?"

 

 

 

Moments later a chiding reply drifts up from his landlady, "Only three minutes later than the last time you asked me Sherlock, 15:26! Why don't you do something with the cross sections of bone you have in the crisper? And don't try to fleece me young man, I know damn well they are human."

 

 

 

Acidic response frozen on his lips Sherlock glances through the open hall door toward the refrigerator, he had completely forgotten about them. The bones having been collected from Molly before the fateful text from John. Wordlessly he wends his way to the appliance thinking, 'Might just be able to distract myself...' mentally calculating the hours till the train due to arrive in St. Pancreas station. With a maniacal grin he spins and begins to set his equipment up on the table to take a closer look at the necrotic bone samples. 

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

His operatives reported Sherlock was thumping about in the flat in one of his usual manners, if a bit more energetic than usual and this is not strange at all, but Sebastian is out for blood now.

 

 

 

While he puts the wheels in motion he hears Sherlock has settled, started up one of his experiments and it fits Sebastian's plans to a 't'. Mobilising the two young Italians and sending them off he sits back to wait.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson sighs to herself as she races as fast as she can to the front door, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" then under her breath, "no need to hold the buzzer down so long, I only JUST distracted that foolish young man!" 

 

 

 

Upon reaching the door she opens to see two young men about her hight smiling at her. The one on the left reaches his hands out toward her, "Hello! We are here to answer your advert in the paper about 221C, may we come in?"

 

 

 

Her eyes widening in shock a moment before Martha smiles warmly shaking the offered hand, "Well come in then," noticing the drizzle she steps back quickly, "has it finally decided to rain now? Come in, come in, right this way-out of the wet," ushering them into the hallway leading to her door and 221C Martha slows to a stop just outside the doors. "I'm Martha Hudson and this is my house, which I love, but I'll happily acknowledge it's short comings."

 

 

 

With a wry, impish grin she gestures to the door marked 221C. "So before we go any further, I will warn you that it is very damp down there and in a certain state of disrepair as I am not a young woman anymore and no one has called round to look at it in years. If you are actually interested we can put an effort in to fixing it up for you, but I'll not start till we've signed a tenancy agreement."  

 

 

 

The same young man as before smiles widely, "Madam Hudson, we were born and raised in Florence, please believe me that the damp is not going to bother us. In my father's house it wasn't till you got up towards the third or fourth floors that the washing would consent to drying even with the use of the radiators! I'm sure it will be fine."

 

 

 

The second young man smiles, "My name is Ricardo Rossi and this is my chatty partner, Giuseppe Bertolucci. We are thankful to see your lovely home."  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry this is STILL not getting to the reunion, weird things keep happening! I sit down with my tablet and think to myself, 'okay! next to last chapter!' only to discover a thousand words later I've written another on in between!! So irritating!
> 
> So instead I will say I hope to be done before new years eve.
> 
> Ta


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary get to the UK and Sherlock is on pins and needles. Oh and did I mention Sebastian is loosing his grip on reality? Well yes he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, Happy New Year! Not the final chapter I'd hoped, butch there we go.

The atmosphere in the car has been strained for the last few hours and once the train arrives at St. Pancreas station the tension cranks up even further. John and Mary silently sharing only a few glances back and forth as she carefully drives to a car park near Baker St. Once parked the silence stretches out and clings to them. As though speaking would jinx their efforts, or jar them awake to see they are actually still in the fishing boat. The palpable sense of foreboding swells till Mary has to speak, "Have you texted him yet?"

 

 

 

A hushed, "No." the only response as John continues to gaze out the side window toward the entrance. 

 

 

 

Mary's lips purse for a moment to form the 'w' of 'why?', but she stops as the question becomes mute; John's waiting for a reason. The question is which reason is it? Did he think they had been followed? Did he have some reason for waiting till later afternoon? Was he waiting for full dark? Or was John simply afraid?

 

 

 

Taking her time she looks on as John stares fixedly out the window waiting. He sits there rigid in the seat, his shoulders squared off but leant forward at an angle, looking very uncomfortable. His arms are crossed over his abdomen the mobile clutched in his right hand, knuckles gone pale with exertion.

 

 

 

"John, why are you worried? No one knows we are here, we don't look at all like ourselves, there is no way we've been tracked."

 

 

 

She watches as a shudder runs through the muscles of his back, "What if this is the wrong thing to do Mary? Maybe I should have stayed well away." His voice is rough and low, "I knew he was alive and working - so happy - I should have left well enough alone!"

 

 

 

"John..." chidingly, "how could you say that, he's a gaunt wreck, much like yourself, there is no happiness in him!"

 

 

 

Turning around to her, anger snapping in his eyes, "And what if I get him killed today Mary? What then? If I hadn't come back he might have gone on and learned to be happy again, he..." swallowing fitfully, John gamely tries to keep talking, but after pulling in a few deep gasping breaths the sobs trapped in his chest break through. Shaking violently he hangs his head and sobs, shoulders quivering under the ferocity of the emotions.

 

 

 

Mary watches in shock as John falls apart for a moment, then, before she has had time to do more than raise her hand off her lap to comfort him it all stops. Once more he's chained himself beneath that iron clad will; his military training shoved ruthlessly to the fore. His left hand comes up and with the base of his thumb he scrubs the tears away before sitting ramrod straight and activating the burner mobile clutched in his right.

 

 

 

With numb fingers, correcting himself frequently, he begins a text, 

 

'Plans changed, I'm done with the sight seeing, going to head back north. Can you warn your friend that I might be interested in the flat in as few as ten to fifteen days. Do you think that would suit?'

 

 

 

Not daring to breathe John sits frozen staring at the burner mobile in his hand. Only to jump slightly when a response comes through, the device buzzing gently in his hand. 'Sounds great, might give them time to spruce the place up a bit, lol. It needs it! Catch you later, I'm just in classes at the mo.'

 

 

 

In a quick motion he levers himself out of the car and goes around to the trunk, pulling out a duffle bag he packs some of their warmer clothes and then heads off to the ticket machine. Taking the parking slip he scans the leaving procedure and pops it in his wallet.

 

 

 

"Come on then, I need a better way to hide my appearance." and with that he makes a beeline for the dark back corners of the parking garage, out a fire exit and into the alley. After a few minutes of trailing after John, Mary speaks up.

 

 

 

"John? Where are we going? I thought you had to go Baker street now?" Though she tries to keep her tone steady and calming, the confusion, irritation and frustration do colour her voice, and add an edgy shrillness around the words.

 

 

 

Grunting John slows to a stop beside a lump of rubbish and random things. Mary shakes her head, wondering if he's going to pick through the litter when he speaks with a thick German accent. "I have a good thick jacket to trade, some socks too. You interested?"

 

 

 

To her surprise a youngish girl unrolls from, what she assumed was rubbish, but now sees is a carefully constructed hide for her. A fairly tidy young lady rises to her feet to inspect the articles. "What do you want?"

 

 

 

"Just something to blend in a bit better, so the locals won't look twice."

 

 

 

The three of them stand there as the young lady looks them both up and down silently. Eventually she nods shallowly, "I can switch out with your friend, but we'll have to go over to Bobby to find something to cover you mate. If you can pay entry to the club that is."

 

 

 

As Mary look on, her eyebrows twisted up in a look of bafflement, John hands over the clothes as well as several of their hundred Euro bills, "Sorry they aren't sterling, but I was in a rush to get to London."

 

 

 

Dropping the smaller bits and shoving them under her pile the girl smiles crookedly, "No worries mate, I can change them up easy peasy." Then spinning away with an incongruous  air of entitlement, "Come on then lads, this way!"

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sherlock hasn't moved since the text came in, his right hand frozen holding a scalpel while his left is grasping the phone and just staring at the words. 

 

 

 

Inside one of the rooms of his mind palace he is calmly and carefully counting out the seconds to every minute till John would arrive, in another he is frantically throwing things around in sheer agitation and worry. Suddenly a fine tremor runs through his body, like a calm ripple across a mill pond and he's carefully packing up the cross sectioned bones with one hand and texting Mycroft with the other.

 

 

 

That completed he becomes a whirlwind of action, carefully - if terrifically quickly - putting his samples and sharps away, rushing through the flat collecting everything he needs, shoving it haphazardly in various pockets, into his room wrenching open his window and scarpering down the fire escape. 

 

 

 

Knowing someone has eyes on his flat he moves to the deepest, darkest spot in the alleyway, wraps his scarf around his face till barely the small slit of his eyes remains visible, his huge bellstaff curled tight to him, leather gloves hiding the blinding white hands, he presses into the brick and settles his motion in a relaxed manor he can maintain for hours.

 

 

 

His care for detail is not in vain as less than five minutes later an man pokes about in the front of the alleyway muttering into his phone with a thick Florentine accent. Sherlock tilts his head forward a touch when his back is turned so the white bridge of his nose is shadowed and focuses everything in on what the man is saying.

 

 

 

"Yes boss, I know we should have moved faster, nothing told us he was on the move, after all up until five minutes ago he was working on those bone fragments." There's a long pause as the mobile spits out words at a volume Sherlock can almost hear.  "Yes boss, I know the alley has three exits, I know he could be running. I'm sure we'll s...." the rest of the sentence is bitten off in a loud spill of vitriol, in which Sherlock is sure he hears a few choice words about the mobile's owner having his kidneys removed via blunt trauma. The Italian looking around grimly passes a few meters from the detective, listening silently, without noticing him at all.

 

 

 

His count down room reminds him he has between three and eight minutes to get across the street. Consideringly he glances at his mobile looking to see if Mycroft has responded, whilst another part of his brain considers routes around to the opposite street a text comes through with it's quiet buzz.

 

 

 

There is no identifier on the message, just, 'Pick-up far end of alley, thug went right, assume a double back pattern, three minutes to meet.'

 

 

 

With a grin Sherlock pulls himself from his shadow and begins striding down the alley swiftly. Going around a dogleg at the end of the street he sees the usual black car waiting a few meters away, with a door open and a young lady walking back and forth behind the car, seemingly on the phone. Sherlock identifies Anthea and scrunches down to carefully clamber into the car without rocking it on it's suspension and give away the ruse. Moments later she follows and gives curt orders to get them to the house across from 221 without being followed or seen.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

John and Mary have been sitting on a stoop a few doors down and across from 221 for three minutes now and Mary is getting sick of the smell of her 'new' jacket. Sighing in irritation she shifts again, trying in vain to find a less frigid patch of concrete to perch on.

 

 

 

"Stop that, you look like a newby and yet your clothes are hard worn, you need to portray calm cool nonchalance."

 

 

 

Shooting John a look Mary is further frustrated by the fact that he isn't even bothering to look at her while he chides, he just stares down the street.  

 

 

 

"What the hell are you waiting for?" not bothering to wait for a response she barrels on, "I mean, no one knows we're here, why can't we just wander up to the flop house and get inside?"

 

 

 

John spares her the, 'don't be stupid' look and just lays out the facts, "Sebastian will have eyes on the flat if not have embedded personnel on or near the property. I said I'd be there at a specific time, so we don't approach till then. Gives Mycroft time to get people in place and set up."

 

 

 

Mary blushes in frustration and embarrassment, "Fine, but why are we sitting on the ground?" Irritation making her voice creep louder and louder as she gestures aggressively, "Especially when there is a bench right over there!"

 

 

 

Grumbling under his breath and turning his body towards her, unconsciously John counters her aggression by leaning in close, his movements clearly controlled and not the frantic energy of Mary's. John looks down on her, holding her gaze till she slumps relaxed again, frenetic energy gone, "This isn't the park Mary, people would notice two street people sitting down next to the midday commuters. We'd have to take hours we don't have to set that up so it would  look natural, so we sit on a stoop of a pub, a common place for vagrants to gather as this pub dosen't open till 4PM." Looking at his watch and then back down the street, "Besides, only a moment or two left, by the time you got resettled it'd be time to go."

 

 

 

Mary nods, shifts again and stuffs her hands between her abused cold butt cheeks and the concrete. Closing her eyes she tries to rest a bit and wish away the time remaining.

 

 

 

Suddenly someone is looming over them, in a loud voice the burly man curses them out, "Damn ingrates, git off me stoop!" then in a low voice, "Boss is round back, next alley connects." Mary still in some degree of shock allows herself to be pulled along off the stoop and around the corner into the depths of the alley. In the darkened corner just before the turn of the alley John slows to a stop dropping the duffle beside his feet as he cranes his head around the corner to look at who is there.

 

 

 

Seeing Anthea standing there ear pressed to the phone as if taking a call John then falls to the zip of the duffle and starts undressing. "Quick, jacket and disguise off." Offering a carrier bag to her open, "Stuff it in here."

 

 

 

As soon as their jackets are in the bag, John drops it and pulls out a packet of wipes, roughly sawing at the edge of the bald cap and his face in general. Tying in vain to remove some of the layers of grime he's developed in the last 24hrs!

 

 

 

Mary tisks, "Here, let me do your face and you do mine, it's a lot easier if you can see the face your cleaning."

 

 

 

John hesitates a second then offers her the packet whilst pulling the bald cap all the way off. His mind and body are buzzing with energy and there is a sickly feeling in his stomach, he's only minutes away from seeing Sherlock again. Mere moments.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sherlock paces through the lower floor of the building, the vagrants in the area have been treating it fairly well, there is minimal tagging and the remaining furniture is still well intact. He knows that a good number of his people would rather be off the streets for comfort, but don't want to be found for one reason or another.

 

 

 

Stopping short and clenching his fists to his temples Sherlock tries to stop his brain from leaping around noting all the traces of actions, benign or not, that he can see in the room around him. Pressing in harder and harder he blocks everything out in a desperate bid to retain his composure. 

 

 

 

Not once does it occur to him to just 'read' the room and get it over with, seeking the calm from knowing what has happened. He knows that if he picks up the thread of so very manny stories he'll be helpless to keep from following each and every one of them till he has all the answers. 'Maybe I'll come with John after all this has been dealt with and look around again.'

 

 

 

He hears movement in the back, low pitched voices and his body is instantly thrumming with adrenaline. Furious with the reaction he chides himself, 'It's probably just Anthea and one of the other agents.' But his body doesn't listen, the sabotage (of his body over his mind) dumping of chemicals in his system continues and he remains rooted to the spot, one hand lowering the other clutched in his hair at the temple now. Feeling his body tremble he cranes his head around at the feel of a hand gently touching his elbow.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

John and Mary make their way toward the back gate of the property and Anthea, who is grinning at them. "It is good to see you both made it this far. Ms Morsten would you like to come with me to the kitchen? I've brought in some food and teas to make this op a bit smoother."

 

 

 

Mary looks toward John, but he's already staring into the building, like a birddog on point, so she turns fully toward Anthea and smiles, "Yes thank you, we haven't had much in the way of solid food for a while." With a knowing smile the agent leads her into the kitchen area as John follows the creeks in the floorboards from the front rooms.

 

 

 

Coming around the door frame he sees Sherlock for the first time in over three years and his breathing catches and his heart rate kick up as palpitations make his stomach swirl with adrenaline. As he moves forward he sees his love has lost all the weight John had managed to get on him, and then some, his shoulders seem stooped as though exhausted, though the way he's standing is as practiced as his old swagger. 'So it's a constant exhaustion,' John reasons, 'like me, so tired of trying to live alone it's like gravity has increased, drawing us down constantly, but just for us.'

 

 

 

Jarred out of his observations on his lost love by tremors running through the lanky frame, John is suddenly afraid Sherlock is hurting himself the way his hand is yanking at his hair. He takes that last step and reaches out to his elbow. In a flash those silver green eyes are looking into him as Sherlock looks over his shoulder and then slowly unwinds, physically and energy wise, in front of him.

 

 

 

They stand, staring at each other, blank faces scanning the other for information, till the smile forming on John's face is reflected in Sherlock's. Who chuckles, "Really John? A bald cap?"

 

 

 

Laughing John grabs the man and pulls him into a tight, slightly desperate hug, "Oh shut it Sherlock, god I missed you."

 

 

 

Clinging desperately to the smaller man in his arms Sherlock swallows several times to control the tremor in his voice, but is ultimately unsuccessful. "I love you too John." The two of them stay there holding each other tightly basking in the sight and smell of the other unknowingly thinking the exact same thing, 'If I die before this is over it was well worth it.'   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Two left (I mean it this time, don't care how long the chapters are!) and hopefully we'll be done by the end of January. Cheers!


	26. Opening the Cage

As much as he really wants to wrap his arms around his one time blogger and never let go, Sherlock was acutely aware that his disappearance from 221 Baker Street was already known and Moran was probably already in motion. Pulling back slowly he looks down into John's eyes, relieved to see reflected back at him the same tense worry he feels coursing through himself. 

 

 

 

Clearing his throat, "John, Moran undoubtedly knows I have left the flat and has two agents searching for me as we speak. We must believe he has passed this information on to Moriarty as well. We also found a mole in the Yard and have been using her to find out more about Moran..."

 

 

 

Sherlock breaks off as he notices John pulling a mobile out of his pocket. It is NOT the burner Anthea gave him, he watches as John types in 'jonnyluv' to the expensive new model and it unlocks. "Well Sherlock, I think this will be helpful, give it a read and then pass it on to Mycroft, yeah? I'm sure he will make good use of James Moriarty's mobile."

 

 

 

Sherlock stares at him for a fraction of a moment, stunned into silences for once, "You killed him in Greece didn't you?" His eyes quickly taking in all the deductions he can, "with your bare hands, most likely because he pushed you to remember your rape and pulled you back into the trauma. Not clever as you weren't restrained at the time."

 

 

 

John blinks, ducking his head to avoid eye contact, "Yeah that's about right, though you missed the part where he insinuated you'd suffer worse at his hands and then Mary had to pull me off his corpse as I tried to mash it into the rock face."

 

 

 

Sherlock snorts, "Always something..." as he scrolls through the phone devouring the information as quickly as possible. Moments later he stumbles on the texts from John posing as Moriarty. His eyes flicker a bit and he casts a calculating look at John, clearly adjusting his perceptions of what his blogger can do when pressed.

 

 

 

"Well this is a wealth of information indeed John, I'm sure Mycroft will force a knighthood upon you for it." With a flash of the old Sherlock's charm and sass, "Let's see if we can nab Moran out from under his nose before that though."  

 

 

 

Not bothering to move he just raises his voice, "Anthea, would you be so kind as to call Mrs. Hudson in the guise of one of her friends, I don't care which, and invite her out to an afternoon shopping and tea at the Savoy. Don't take a jag to collect her though, too obvious she's being gotten out of the way then." 

 

 

 

John smiles and watches the miraculous mind of Sherlock Holmes work, "I missed watching you work Sherlock."

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Mary, sitting at another elderly kitchen table less than thirty six hours after the last one, listens to the men in the next room plan, now and again Sherlock orders Anthea to do something and she scoops up her blackberry and shunts off another request.

 

 

 

Shaking her head in disbelief, "I'm not quite sure I believe I'm here in London after the last few days." Anthea puts her mobile down and gives her a look raising an inquiring eyebrow. "Only a few days ago I went up a mountainside with a typical middle aged Geek man, and now I'm sat in a derelict building waiting for a madman to come hunting us again."

 

 

 

Looking for a long moment into her cup she watches the tiny pieces of tea leaf chase themselves about in the water. Taking a hefty drink she carefully places the cup down, "I think I may need something much stronger before long."

 

 

 

Materialising at her shoulder, Sherlock looming behind, John places a comforting hand on her shoulder, "No worries Mary, we're off to the pub after." He hugs her tightly as this perfectly normal comment lays out in stark reality that they are all still in terrific danger. The unvoiced 'if we are still alive' that belongs in the middle of John's statement moves her to slightly hysterical tears. Gripping John's hand she is relieved to feel his arm shake with unchecked emotion, she's not alone in her fears and looking up she can see it mirrored in both their eyes.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

Sebastian glares at his mobile, it's Ricardo on the line and he's not sure if he wants to pick it up and hear that they for sure lost Sherlock. 'Course they did!' his mind hisses in Jim's voice, 'Do you think you could have done better?' Uncertainty swamping him he picks up the mobile, "I hope you have good news."

 

 

 

The click of Ricardo swallowing is clear on the line before he speaks, "Giuseppe did loose Sherlock, but I intercepted a call to the landlady, she's out with a friend for the day. Off out in half an hour actually, so if he hasn't returned by then we can set up a trap in his own flat."

 

 

 

Hollow flat laughter echoes in his mind, 'How very ordinary, you do know it is a trap, don't you? God I hope so, whatever did I see in you otherwise?' Growling under his breath he martials his thoughts away from the dark despair. "Fine set it up and call me when she's gone, I'll bring over the muscle." He rings off trying to pretend he isn't still hearing the belittling laughter of his lover in his mind. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So everyone is trying to trap EVERYONE! Heh, getting there snail paced, but it's all laid out and no extra bits are possible! I think....


	27. The Final Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things all come to a head in the last chapter of Nowhere Man!

Mycroft is quietly watching Greg succumb to the weight of sleep in his chair, ridiculously pleased over it he resists the urge to wrap a throw around his shoulders.

Years back when John appeared in Sherlock's life Mycroft was surprised to notice Gregory pulling a bit away from Sherlock, as though subconsciously he didn't want to be considered competition to the new room mate. Having not thought about any possibilities in that direction, of Gregory being even slightly interested - he was married to a woman at the time after all - Mycroft's mind was set alight by the possibilities in a fraction of time.

Over the last few years Gregory has changed a fair bit, yet stayed the same. He finally split up with his wife, who was sleeping around for the fourth time (a subconscious desire to be married to someone in a safe stable job), but that openness he had about him never faded, in which Mycroft took considerable delight.

At first, he himself was unaware as to why he was seeking out the DI's opinion on his brother so regularly, but that was put to a swift stop when Sherlock deduced it out of him. A high pitched hum of intrigue and three words see Mycroft walking back out the sitting room door, 'The DI then?' was all his mind needed to re-align the facts from: an interesting and swift method of managing his little brother. To the now obvious: any and every excuse of spending time with Gregory to tentatively push at that open behaviour and see just how accepting he can be.

Sighing in irritation at himself Mycroft gives in and covers Gregory in a blanket. As he's tucking an edge in he jerks back, catching dark brown eyes burning right through him, "Apologies, you seemed cold." Holding his breath, Mycroft turns measuredly away, he doesn't want to seem to have been caught 'up to something', even if he was. He most definitely doesn't want to look at Gregory and see the telling look that says he knows Mycroft had been lingering over the blanket. One could even have said fussing over the comfort of the other man.

Reflexively he suppresses the sigh of relief when an agent comes in baring a small couriers packet. "Sir?" the agent asks, wondering if it's clear to speak.

Mycroft smiles his professional smile, "If it is about the Baker Street sting, feel free to continue."

With a sharp nod, "Sir, Anthea sends that with compliments from the doctor, they hope it will be helpful."  
Taking the pouch Mycroft dismisses the agent with a quick flick of his hand and ripping open the reinforced card envelope. An up-market mobile falls out, followed by a small slip of paper covered in Anthea's careful script. A list of her access passwords and details of one Dr. John Watson's arrival to the Baker Street property.

"What's with the mobile?"

Mycroft suppresses a twitch, at Gregory's voice originating close to his ear, instead of on the chair where he had been moments ago. "Apparently the good doctor has eliminated Moriarty all on his own and now stands at the ready with my little brother to help us in ensnaring Moran."

Gregory just blinks at him for a moment, "John killed..."

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, "The phone should have some useful information on it, would you be so kind as to skim through it for important things?"

Caught flat footed twice in one minute he stares back at Mycroft before it all clicks into place, "I'm not a beat cop Mycroft, you can't just assign me busy work and hope I'll stay out of the 'big kids' way! This guy is a public menace and if our theories hold, a rapist who may well move up to murder in his attempts at framing your brother. Mycroft, you cannot expect me, or the yard, to stay out of this!"

Mycroft begins as close to conciliatory as he can, "I had rather hoped this fell in our jurisdiction, being an international criminal..."

Only to be interrupted by, "Who has been propagating actual crimes in London in order to frame Sherlock, not whatever loose connection we have to Moriarty!"

Again Mycroft rallies, "All the more a reason to be looking through that mobi..."

He is again cut off, "Mycroft don't be ridiculous! You can do that, or Anthea, either of you is more adept at file salvage than me. I'm a cop, what I do is keep people safe and right now I'm going to go arrest that fucker!"

"Isn't it about time Donovan have a big collar?" The second the words are out of his mouth Mycroft knows the jig is up! Gregory is now staring at him as though he's sprouted several heads.

Stepping around the politician he insinuates himself into Mycroft's view, "So it's me specifically that you don't want to go down there? Why would that be?"

But irritatingly Mycroft keeps his eyes riveted to the mobile in his hand, a slight tremor in the paper clutched in the other hand the only clue he's the least bit upset. Clearly 'His Nibs' as Sherlock sometimes refers to him, isn't willing to ease up on the choke hold he has on everything in his life. That, more than anything else, suddenly strikes Greg full of irritation.

"Yeah," spinning away and heading for the door, "well you better wise up quickly Mycroft, if you don't ease up soon you'll find yourself all alone. After all even Sherlock has someone in his life again. Don't wait too bloody long."

A long time after the door kicked shut, Mycroft stares at the mobile in his hand. The tremor in his hand having spread, he's not sure if he's afraid of the confrontation sure to happen after Moran is dealt with or if he's excited, but he'll have go to Gregory when it was all said and done to find out.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sebastian looks down the length of Baker Street, everything was in place, the Italians have cleared the building, Mrs. Hudson left twenty minutes ago, Sherlock yet to return. Though to be fair, they can't say for sure how he left the first time (loft, bedroom window or out Mrs. Hudson's garden door) so no one is a hundred percent sure they can keep him out. For that reason he's put people on the roofs, surrounding the place with a network of eyes.

The cold voice in his mind chides, 'It won't be enough Sebby, between Sherlock and Mycroft you won't be able to out think them. But go on then, prove it to me.' ducking is head in a vain attempt to hide from the syllibent whisperings of a dead man Sebastian Moran sends the text that puts all the checks in motion. Moments later he gets a final all's clear and starts his casual walk down the street, he's carrying nothing and his well tailored jacket hides the two gun holsters he wears. Smiling affably at the homeless person on the corner he strides up to the door of 221 and depresses the buzzer for C, seconds later Giuseppe lets him in and they troupe down the stairs to their flat to check on the surveillance feed.

Giuseppe is chittering in his ear, about being profusely sorry he lost Sherlock, while Ricardo backs his story up, so Sebastian is jolted out of the subsequent daze he was in by his mobile sounding off. Looking a bit confused, as he was supposed to be the one initiating contacts, Sebastian pulls it out of his pocket. Clearly the brothers had not missed the significance of this and fall completely silent.

On the screen the 'locate friends' icon is flashing. Scrunching up his forehead in further distraught frustration he clicks on it and the app opens. It reads cheerfully 'JM's mobile found' as the map, showing the whole of the UK has a big red dot in the southeast.

The world seems to slow as a sharp pain sears through the very core of him. His stomach clenching in waves of agony he moves with his shaking right hand to expand the map, pushing his fingers apart on the screen. The red dot staying there defiantly as the map focuses in on London.

Pausing for a breath Sebastian is surprised to feel a bit fuzzy, as though he's been underwater for too long; realising belatedly that this means he'd been holding his breath. Determinedly he continues to expand the map till the red dot is resting on a street - this street.

He registers a gasp in his ear, as Ricardo clears his throat, "Sir the signal is coming from upstairs, inside 221B."

Not waiting for the guards to go ahead and check, he draws his pistol from the shoulder holster and runs up the stairs. Not bothering at all to disguise the clattering of his footsteps on the stair he races up to the first floor flat and stands breathless behind the door that is cracked open slightly.

Feeling as though caught in a flash freeze, his arm moving slow and jerkily up, hand outstretched, that lyrical cackle in his mind's ear, Sebastian steps forward trying to force through the internal chill of foreboding and pushes the door open.

Inside is a gentleman in a Westwood suit, dressed immaculately harkening Sebastian's mind back to James. But it is the wrong Englishman standing there, it is John bloody Watson standing there in Westwood like he doesn't have a care in the world, like there isn't a bloody price on his head!

For a sinking moment he thinks Jim brought John here, to rub his new pet in Sebastian's face, but then he sees Jim's mobile in John's hand. A roar builds in his throat as everything falls into place. 'Well done.' whispers his ghost. With a clarity he had been missing he realises who exactly has been texting him these last few days, that it was John Watson himself who has been leading him around by the nose all this time!

A cavalier smile on his face John Watson nods, "Yes you do see don't you, I have his phone, now what do you suppose that means?"

Sebastian is seized by that flash freeze again for a moment, his face growing red as heartbeats pass them by, then a shudder runs through him and he whips his gun up again lightning fast, cocking it and pointing it at John's head, "You, you...insignificant speck!" he shouts, "Who are you to put out the divine light of Moriarty?" Sebastian's confused by John not trying to stop him or evade him, but he's too enraged to care at the moment. "What gave you the..." then all sight is gone from him as a solid blow to the back of his head registers and he falls nervelessly to the floor.

Sherlock steps over the threshold and around the slumped figure as John safeties and puts away Sebastian's gun he'd grabbed when Sherlock knocked him out with the baton. "Well done on aggravating him John, you were almost as acerbic as me! Well done indeed."

In the moments before his mind stops detailing the goings on around him Sebastian hears the voice of James Moriarty in his mind again. But this time it isn't jeering, or derisive, but a balm, 'Oh Sebby, I know you don't have faith in yourself, but you always had enough in me. I might play with others and make them dance to my tune, but we had something more. You may rest that nasty corner of your mind, only death has parted us, nothing else is possible.' As thought pattern stops, surrendering to unconsciousness, tears of relief gather beneath his eyelids. The horrible weight of jealousy gone in a flash.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

(45 minutes earlier)  
Lestrade strolls into the property across from 221 Baker Street and looks around. He knows that somewhere here is John, whom he has not seen for over three years, as well as a young lady targeted by Moriarty's men. He's aware that Mycroft will be minutes behind him, 'why? He hates 'field work'! Why did he want me out of this?'

Anthea materialises beside him, "I thought you were staying out of the line of fire Lestrade? Has something changed about the plan?"

Suppressing the urge to grind his teeth he smiles at her, "No, there was no plan, as I saw it, so I came down to help if I could."

At that moment, while she quickly covered up a surprised flash across her face Sherlock strides in. John trailing him a grim set smile on his face and Greg is struck with a fierce longing, or nostalgia, as they seem to come as a set, as much now as ever. "Lestrade!" he bellows, "where is the mobile, I need it." not waiting for him to answer, Sherlock rounds on Anthea and lays into her. "I need you to go and get John a suit, Westwood, nothing else you understand? Can you grasp that? I've already texted the tailor his new measurements, I just need you to go fetch it in a quarter of an hour, can you manage or should I have Greg help you?"

Most the people in the room are unsurprised by the torrent of words, but the quiet words, "Sherlock, bit not, eh?" from John Watson are a revelation. Moreover, the way Sherlock looks over his shoulder and assesses the seriousness (extremely so) of his one time blogger and redresses his attitude instantly to appease him.

The next words, "Could you please?" floor the room. Anthea takes a breath to register and then she nods, and disappears.

Greg just stares, not quite mouth agape, but close as John effortlessly keeps Sherlock's insane behaviour in check. 'That's one hell of a superpower!' he catches himself thinking as Mycroft swans into the room.

"I think you were wanting this, brother mine."

There is a moment of quiet where the two Holmes brothers look at one another; each deducing the other's intentions at that moment and deciding not to speak them aloud. As they both have too much face to loose. In a choreographed manner they break eye contact and move away from one another and Mycroft picks up the narrative, "Just a simple plan then brother? Puts both of you in a fair amount of danger though."

Sherlock shrugs, "I think Moran's obsession with his boss will stay his trigger hand long enough to get the 'drop on him' as they say. I have no worries that John can't succeed in this. He's outdone even Moriarty's assumptions, I'm confidant he can outdo yours. Provided your men have covered the angles for us."

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft happens to drift toward the DI, "Yes Sherlock, Moran's rooftop cover has been subdued. He will still get checks in from them, but they have been made aware of their mistake in throwing their lot in with Moran."

Greg snorts, "So they have guns pointed at their heads is what you mean."

Mycroft spares him an almost hurt look, "You don't have to be so crass about it, Gregory." Only to stiffen in irritation, if not anger at the sniggering and a low voiced, "Oooh Gregory is it?" out of Sherlock. Glancing over his shoulder at the two men the sharp retort that was on his lips dissipates as he takes in the relaxed demeanour and happy expressions they both wear. Looking away he catches the DI's expression of quiet wonder and has suppress the sheer elation that his younger brother is happy again, something he was almost sure wouldn't happen.

So, choosing to ignore the remark, he instead outlines the plan.

"John, you and Sherlock will go over to 221B. You will turn on the locating function on Moriarty's phone once you are in the sitting room and Sherlock hidden away. Moran should come running up to the flat, My agents will be waiting to detain Moran's personal guard and the Italians." Looking blandly, as though it meant less than nothing, "I suspect Moran will threaten you John, but he will be caught flatfooted by you not being the man he thinks to see there and Sherlock will pop out of hiding and knock him out while you keep his attention fixed." He looks around at each of them, sparing a second glance at Dr. Watson who usually resists being told what to do so explicitly. "Any questions?" all heads, even John's, shake no. "Very good."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John watches in relief as the suited persons carry the limp body of Moran out of the sitting room he had, so traumatically, dreamt of just the night before. With a laugh to himself he strips off the suit jacket, drops it onto the seat of the chair behind the door and moves to collapse onto the sofa. Sherlock a silly wide smile on his face does the exact same thing coming to rest right beside him.

"So...I guess it's over, huh Sherlock?" John states staring blankly across the room at the cold hearth.

For a few moments there is silence, then, "Yes John... How I have longed for this moment, never believing for a second I could have it. I have missed you horribly John, you are my... orchestrator of... Well, you are my light."

John's eyes snap back from the hearth to the man beside him and looking into his earnest eyes calmly, then, "My memories of you kept me safe and hidden these long years. I know it is safe to say I wouldn't have gone through all this if I had never met you Sherlock, but I cannot regret any single moment of it. Not Harry's passing, not running for so long, or any of the nights I was certain I'd loose fingers or toes to the cold." Moving to snake an arm in behind Sherlock's back and curl up against his side, "It was all worth it to see you again, to be here, with you, again."

Sherlock doesn't respond vocally, the words sticking somewhere beyond his reach. Instead he pulls free his arm and gently wraps it around his friend and love's shoulders pulling him closer, tighter and closer.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! The end of the story of getting Sherlock and John back to where they belong! Obviously there's something missing, *eh-hem* sexy times! And I promise a steamy epilogue, but at the mo I'm suffering some hormonal issues that seem to be keeping me from the headspace I need to be in to write them! (ie, if feel crappy and every time I start writing Sherlock keeps saying 'not tonight John I have a dissection to do!')
> 
> It will come though. I already have one of the three epilogues written and will post them soon to spur myself onwards!


	28. The Italians

Ricardo shifts nervously in his seat, not sure if the story was going to hold up or if the notorious 'Ice Man' would ferret out the truth. Looking up at the tall silver haired man looming over him he clears his throat again, "Look Detective, Moran had some information, or leverage, on the 'Italian' who is a government official, much like yourself, and Giuseppe and I were sent to infiltrate his network and see if we could lay hands on the leverage, or gain some over Moran so we could trade it back for easement on the 'Italian'  

 

Saved by a knocking on the door, Ricardo is relieved to see a familiar face beyond the doorway as the DI leaves. Minutes later the door is opened and the new arrival, Giuseppe,  and the DI all troupe in.

 

"Well it would seem your story holds, or at least your deep cover holds strong enough for my liking." Ricardo risks a glance at his rescuer, the usual mop of curly hair is tamed and the dimpled grin isn't there, but his eyes are sparkling with barely contained mischief.

 

"So we are free to go? Are we being sent back to Italy?"

 

The DI nods, "Yes you are allowed to go, but you are not being deported, a friend of mine in the Home Office looked and your work visa's check out. So you may go, you may even continue to live in 221C, just make sure I don't have to arrest you again, please and thank you."

 

The mysterious Italian lawyer who appeared to defend the two men smiles and reaches out to shake Lestrade's hand, "Well thank you very much for seeing this quickly sorted, my client is very happy his cousin is not really in trouble with Scotland Yard. We try hard to be a well behaved family, thank you for your expeditious time."

 

After a few more 'thank you's and hand shaking the three short Italian men disappear into the lift. Grumbling in irritation he thumbs on his mobile and calls Sherlock. Without waiting for him to say anything, once it connects he begins to talk, "Those Italians have been cleared and I think they are coming back to 221C! Why did you and Mycroft tell me to let them go?"

 

Imperiously, "Bring me footage from the interview room and I'll tell you." 

 

Growling in irritation, "You know I can't do that Sherlock!" and then stalking out of the office at the response of, "Hurry up then, use your lights so you get here before them." then the line went dead.

 

A few irritated minutes later, he and Donovan pile out of the panda car and clammer at the bell, Mrs. Hudson lets them in and they storm up to the sitting room where Sherlock, John and Mycroft are looking out the front windows.

 

"So, what the hell am I here for, and why should I have used sirens to get here?"

 

"Shush," Sherlock admonishes and waves him over to the other window, "come and look."

 

Not knowing what he was supposed to be looking for they all stand there a bit looking and not seeing anything, "Sherlock, what am I looking for?" just as a cab pulls up and three men pile out. It's the Italians from 221C. 

 

As they approach the door the lawyer stops looks up at them all, looks into the window John and Sherlock are standing at and there is a low whisper of "Bugger me." out of John as the lawyer smiles up at John and sketches an old fashioned courtly bow before disappearing into the building.

 

Backing away to look at John, who looks as though he's seen a ghost, Lestrade starts asking questions, "What the hell was that? John do you know that man?" Only to have Mycroft answer, "I think Gregory, you will find that you have today met the mysterious 'Italian' who seemingly helped John in his little adventure home."

 

Blinking in disbelief he looks to John for confirmation. Who nods, "Yeah, he helped us with an informant and got me and Mary off Crete, we'd never have made off the island let alone here before Moran got suspicious without him."

 

Mycroft smirks, "You must have made quite the impression upon him Dr. Watson, the 'Italian' doesn't often leave the Mediterranean and just sends lackeys, like the other two, to see things straight. I think you may have made a powerful friend there."

 

John snorts to himself, "Yeah great, now there are two political megalomaniacs who know where I live."

 

Nudging him gently in the ribs Sherlock winks at him, "Well at least you crossed a couple sociopath criminals off that list."

 The End


	29. The Treaty

Greg slams the drawer of his desk shut in irritation, there's some noise from above about Moran and he had a bad feeling that he's going to have to let all the cases that Sherlock had named Moran in go cold. Which would not sit well with the Chief Inspector. True, with access to Moriarty's mobile, he could prove the crimes had NOT been perpetrated by Sherlock. Especially given there is actually orders on it, to Moran, telling him how to do each and every crime, all the way up to the kidnapping of the diplomat's kids. But no one will be happy with the perception of a violent criminal loose on the streets.

 

But there is frustratingly nothing at all that he can do. He knows Mycroft and his department have disappeared the man and no one will see him again. On one hand he is relieved, after the fiasco of having Moriarty in his lockup, only to have the guy somehow get to each and every one of the jury, resulting in a not guilty verdict, Greg worried about a repeat occurrence. But on the other, he does believe that the justice system exists to ensure the rights of the accused are not abused and Moran's are most definitely being ignored if not abused.

 

Trying not to let it all get to him, Greg shrugs into his overcoat and pulls his door shut, locking it, before heading to the lift and out the building. Stopping short outside the front doors he shakes his head at the black Jag sitting there just waiting for him. Squaring his shoulders, ready for an argument, Greg strides over and yanks open the car door, before the driver can even get out to open it for him.

 

Landing heavily in the seat he turns slightly to Mycroft, "Didn't you consider I might have headed for the garage?"

 

Unperturbed Mycroft spins the umbrella handle between his long fingers without paying any attention, "No, frankly not. You left for the sting from my flat, when your car was at yours, so you arrived here without it as you did not return home to get it after the op. Therefore you'd be coming out front to the taxi rank." Stilling his hands for a bit he looks down at the umbrella, suddenly Greg interrupts, "Do you really think I want to talk to you, while you have MY suspect off in some cell somewhere?" 

 

Mycroft looks him in the eyes a long moment, seemingly deciding whether or not to tell him anything. "Moran has been extradited to the United States because he had rather a rein of terror going on during his last vacation there with quite the body count. Rather the reason we tried to get eyes on Adler, to flip her for info on Moran." Mycroft then lays the umbrella against his door to rest, turning a bit further toward Lestrade. "I had thought you'd be wanting to have that other conversation now."

 

Greg sits back in his seat looking out the front windscreen for a moment before answering, "I thought you'd try keeping us from having that discussion."

 

Mycroft shakes his head, "No, we have to examine the known parameters so we know what falls outside of them and is then unacceptable." His statement delivered straight faced while he leans back in his seat, as well staring out front, Mycroft is clearly attempting subterfuge in order to avoid open admittance of how he feels.

 

Greg snorts, "That's a vague comment if I ever heard it! But what ever you need to tell yourself mate." with that they both fall silent for the twenty minute ride to Mycroft's flat.

 

Wordlessly they enter, Greg amusedly noticing the chaos they had left behind earlier that day was all gone, cleaned up by the house staff. Glancing at his watch he realises they are alone in the penthouse flat for three hours till the cook comes back. Throwing Mycroft a smirk he heads for the kitchen after hanging up his coat. "You go get settled in the study and figure out what your going to say, I'll make us some tea."

 

Much to his surprise Mycroft follows him, "I'm sorry Gregory, I can not condone you making tea in a cup and passing it off as REAL tea." Pointing at the pantry, "Get us some nibbles, this conversation is liable to take a while." Quickly the politician sets about setting water to boil, rinsing the teapot with hot water and selecting a nice loose leaf tea and setting it to steep for exactly three and a half minutes.

 

Greg chuckles to himself as he finds some posh biscuits and chocolates (even a couple slices of cake!), 'Of course the posh git can brew up a proper cuppa, prolly something he had a class in at Eaton.' still wrapped up in his mirth he catches Mycroft's eye as he adds his selections to the tray.

 

Planting one hand on his hip in frustration and veiled aggression, "Really Gregory, just because I allow persons in my employ to 'do' for me doesn't mean I am incapable. All it means is that I value the fact that they can do whatever skill it is more efficiently than I resulting in no loss of the time I need to spent on work."

 

Stepping into his friend's personal space, Greg drops a hand on the slightly taller man's shoulder, "I can't help my working class brain coming up with some silly notions, now can I?" As the aggression in his mate's eyes dies back and the affronted posture begins to melt, "After all, if you had thought up the idea of a class in 'proper tea prep.' as a finishing class at Eaton, you'd have laughed too."

 

A funny expression, almost as though he was chewing a lime rind, flits across Mycroft's features before his hostility melts completely. "Although I already knew how to 'brew up' by my Eaton years, things like table manners, settings and YES even how to make tea and set out a properly laid tea tray, we're part of our gentleman's finishing course. A hold over from Victorian finishing schools no doubt."

 

The silence in the room is taught and swells to make everything sharp and uncomfortable, Mycroft from his admitting to something so banal, Greg from feeling he'd 'put his foot in it' so to speak. The tension stays till the embarrassed duo lock gazes, and in moments they are laughing hysterically. Greg now clutching his friend's shoulder to remain upright as Mycroft's planted hand now clutches at Greg's elbow to keep them together as they laugh on.

 

It's clear, even as it happens to them, that they aren't just laughing over this little class joke, but also as an enabler to release all the stress the last 48hrs had heaped on them. Hell, the culminated stress from the day Mrs. Hudson found John's battered body, all rushing to the fore and out. At the end, they are standing there, heads propped on one another's shoulder swaying slightly in reaction to the force of the emotions that just ran roughshod through them. 

 

Pulling slowly back Greg takes in the slight flush to Mycroft's face and mad glint in his eyes. Feeling overwhelmingly out of his depth he lightens the touch of his hand, the tension dissipating, he slowly trails it off Mycroft's body wishing he had the guts to kiss him. "Well Myc, let's take the tea through and drink it while it's hot, yeah?"

 

Mycroft straightens his waistcoat and turns with a chuckle leaving Greg to pick up the tray. "Let us sit in the den instead of the study, it's the more comfortable of the two." Greg lifts the tray following, "I didn't know there was a den, your study is pretty den-like to me."

 

"My actual den is one of the smallest rooms in the flat, it was supposed to be a walk-in closet, but I needed somewhere to be isolated from the world." 

 

"Ah I see, not somewhere you let Sherlock go then." Greg chuckles as he walks behind balancing all the items on the tray." He almost overbalances it in surprise when the low mutter of 'try not even the cleaning staff' reaches his ears. Still trying to work out if Mycroft is serious he watches bemusedly as his friend pulls a keychain out of the small pocket in his waistcoat and unlocks one of the wood panels. 

 

A seam that had been invisible in the pattern of the wood and wall suddenly swings free on soundless hinges and reveals a small room dominated by a divan settee. Gaping a bit at the whole 'Mycroft has a secret room that ISN'T chock full of surveillance machines'.... It's all just a bit backward when you think about what's in the study should be in here!

 

Gesturing him into the room, Mycroft just stands behind the settee watching the DI stumble about, even after he's put the tea down on a long stone coffee table he looks about in genuine interest.

 

Other than the Early Victorian divan, there is naught but a large stone fireplace Greg suspects shares a chimney with the study, and two stone tables. But the divan, well! Greg leans back on the deep red shaved velvet appolstery of the settee, which to his mind seems an exceptionally deep soft version. Most divan settees are limited in their padding due to design (and doesn't Greg dislike the ex-wife, a bit more, for compulsively remembering this tidbit).

 

Mycroft, noting this, comes around the corner of the impressively styled piece and settles in the other end. Gently stroking the lush velvet a small smile comes over his features, "When I was a lad I read all the great authors, Plato, Homer and their ilk. So one might imagine I was enamoured by the kind of furnishings they had in those ancient civilisations. The Greek and Roman political format being what lead to us embracing democracy my Father encouraged my curiosity for such things." Seeing Greg tilt his head in a non-vocal questioning manner Mycroft fills in the blank, "Yes he did always see me going into the government, as well as Sherlock, it is a family occupation after all. But unlike my brother I didn't disagree with the idea."

 

He falls quiet for a moment, pulling his feet in toward the leg of the settee, which is carved as a gryphon foot and wing, he moves the round velvet bolster from beside him to behind so he can lean back across the depth of the piece and fetch up against the, now thicker layer, of pillows. "I did love the way Early Victorian, almost Neo-Classical furniture looks, but antiques are always miserable to sit on, hard as rock or sagging everywhere."

 

Running his left hand up the gently curving footboard he actually wriggles back, further, into the lush comfortable divan. "So when I was off to Uni and in lodgings of my own devising I commissioned this lovely thing." for a long moment he's quiet, just looking into the flames. Then, "I still remember what I said to the man, I had an picture in my hand of what I wanted, the overall visual image of it in my head, if you will, and then I said, 'I adore the silhouette of this piece, but I want it to be more representative of the Roman style it is playing at representing.' He looked at me, then a shrewd calculation of my knowledge in these matters occurred. 'Are you looking for a fainting couch width, or banquet width?' I shook my head and said, 'Something in between, then we can feel all original about it.'"

 

Rotating his head to look into Greg's eyes, "That master jointer sure got a laugh out of that comment. Then he sketched me something on a scrap plank and that was the first breaths of this beauty coming to life." with a pat to the seat as though patting a horse affectionately. 

 

Greg, seeking to break the tension that built in the tiny room suddenly, looks away and turns to the tray to start doling out the tea, "So you've had it for a while then? Seems like a pain to get in and out of rooms." Knowing the conversation coming is going to be long and a bit wearing he over sugars their cups and adds a good splash of milk as well. Passing the cup to Mycroft when he's done he immediately follows it up with the slice of the Bienenstich he found in the pantry.

 

After a sip, Mycroft smiles at how Greg knows he prefers his tea, regardless of how Mycroft's dietician thinks he should take it. He tries to avoid taking the cake, but Greg just places it on his knees leaving him the option of taking ahold of it or letting it fall to the floor depositing vanilla cream, honeyed almonds and cake everywhere.

 

Mycroft grabs the plate and bends forward to inhale deeply in the vicinity of the cake, as Greg arranges everything just so in front of them so nothing is out of reach of anyone, pretending not to notice his friends battle. Then he can't help it, "Come on Myc, just eat it, you can skip supper if the 250 calories really bothers you that much." 

 

Not able to stop the reactionary, "Is that all? That's almost quarter of my calorie allowance per day." Mycroft stares at the cake balefully, yet still not putting it down. Greg just ignores him, "So? Was it a pain in the arse to get in here, or not?"

 

With a shake of his head, Mycroft puts down his teacup and repositions the plate taking up the cake fork. "No, when I moved to London the building was newly refurbished so the interior walls did not all exist yet. We brought it through the then double doors into my bedroom, set it here and then the walls went up." Greg snickers to himself, "Well that makes sense! This fucker is wide, I think you and I could lie side by side along the beast, with room left over!"

 

After a few more bites of cake Mycroft nods, clearing his mouth, "We can, yes, though not as wide as an ancient Roman feasting couch, it's wider than any other sofa I've seen. It's a good thing too, there have been quite a few nights I've slept here to avoid disaster in the outside world, missed a couple assassins that way too." Gesturing with his fork at the side table, "That conceals a mini fridge with enough food and water in it for a week. Admittedly it's all vacuum sealed MREs and bottles of water, but that's what they are made for."

 

Greg forces himself to stop gaping at his mate and puts his empty plate down, "So this is a proper little panic room then? I thought the lack of a visible door in the hall was simply an aesthetic choice, but it isn't, is it?"

 

"No," fastidiously he places the cake plate down, clearly eating tiny bits at a time to draw out the yeasty-honeyed delight, "once shut and locked they bolt down with impenetrable iron bars six inches wide and two inches thick. A message goes out, wirelessly to several agencies as well as Sherlock and I can stay in here a couple weeks if I have to."

 

Greg looks on thoughtfully as Mycroft drinks some of his tea, "Is there more than one way into here then? And how would you last weeks without access to facilities?" 

 

With a moue of distaste over the topic, Mycroft pauses with the cup halfway to his lips, "There is a hidden panel to the left of the fireplace on the wall shared with my bedroom. Once opened, the facilities, as you put it, can be pulled through to access from this side. It isn't a breach-able point unless the invaders can fit through the metal plumbing fittings." He finishes taking a lengthy sip, his eyes cutting to Greg again and he says after, "the other door opens to my bedroom and is the regular access point."

 

Quiet falls in the room as they sip tea and nibble for a few long moments, Greg feels unsettled by the mention of Mycroft's bedroom if a bit hopeful. Still something is bothering him, "So there isn't actually a door to your room?"

 

A humourless laugh escapes Mycroft, "I don't understand why Sherlock is always so disparaging about your intelligence, you are very quick..." Greg interrupts him, "Sherlock does it to irritate me over being lumped in with Anderson, but it doesn't bug me. He wouldn't tease if I didn't get to him just as bad." More laughter from Mycroft, "It's true, more than Sherlock would like to admit. But yes, my room is a closed circuit, there is an entrance my cleaner uses, but only once a week, I try to keep the mess to a minimum."

 

Pouring out more tea for himself after refilling Mycroft's cup, "So after I gave you a hard time - all this last while - about being a privileged elitist git, it turns out you make your own bed and hang up your own suits?" 

 

Mycroft tries not to react to Greg's closeness, or the familiarity his tone breeds. "Yes, I do keep my room tidy, though I dress in my clothes room, so I don't have to pick up my suits." 

 

Greg watches a slight blush stain Mycroft's cheeks while he discusses what he does in his bedroom and getting dressed and undressed. For a moment he is distracted thinking about what he could do with his 'friend' in a state of undress. "Mycroft, this sofa barley fits in here, let alone the elephant we brought, so let's just have it out, yeah?"

 

Finally finished his cake Mycroft puts down his dishes and pulls in on himself. Greg internally has a suspicion he's attempting pre-emptive measures, withdrawing to keep from getting hurt, something Greg knows only too well runs in the family.

 

"Very well, Gregory, what do you think we need to do about our elephant?"

 

Alarm bells go off at the clipped sharp tone his friend is spitting out; as Greg tries to figure out how to start the conversation. Suddenly an idea occurs to him. Carefully watching to see Mycroft's reaction, Greg puts his cup down and slides a bit closer to him. Not much happens, other than a slight wariness bleeding through in the tightness of Mycroft's lips, the slight narrowing of his eyes as well as a tilt to his head and frame, as if to keep all of Greg in his field of vision despite him coming so close. 

 

'Well he hasn't punched me yet.' Slowly, so he can be stopped at any point, Greg lifts his left hand to gently touch the arch of Mycroft's cheek bone. Still moving at a snail's pace Greg slides his fingers along the bone to thread into the hair above Mycroft's ear. Coming to rest finally at the back of the skull, his fingers spreading as they go, to cradle the swell of it. His wrist twisting gently at the last minute so that the ring and smallest fingers curve down and rest at the top of Mycroft's nape, the very summit of his spine.

 

At the first touch Mycroft's eyes had slid shut, his body relaxing into the caress a gentle moan escaping him as Greg's hand came to rest at the back of his head. His eyes snap open and Greg can not but gasp at the intensity in Mycroft's eyes, an electric pulse that courses through Greg causing his hand to clench slightly in reflex as the pulse sets off a low throbbing in his gut.

 

Mycroft, hearing the gasp and seeing the slight widening of Greg's eyes, is launched into action by the hand on his scalp twitching as though it wanted to grip and pull. Almost before the movement can be seen, Mycroft engulfs Greg's face in his hands and has pulled him into a relentless kiss. His tongue sliding past Greg's open teeth and pressing in for long moments, pressing down on the tongue under his, undulating from side to side and retreating only to press back in almost before he was gone.

 

Greg remains passive for only a few moments in his shock, then he too starts demanding entrance to Mycroft's mouth tickling on the way in, the tender outer gums and the membranes attaching the lips before diving back into explore behind the teeth as well.  
For long breathless moments they remain connected, each trying to overpower the other, biting and pushing and writhing in one another's mouths. 

 

Keen to regain the upper hand in surprises Greg suddenly pitches his weight back and to his right, dragging Mycroft across his lap to fetch up upon his chest. Leaning into the curved headboard he pulls his left leg out from under them while Mycroft is wriggling about trying to regain his balance without giving up the contact of their kiss. Greg plants the left foot as far towards the back of the settee as he can and uses that leverage to drag Mycroft even closer, the angle finally sufficient for their groins to meet, for them to feel the corresponding hardness, even through many layers of clothing. 

 

Abandoning the kiss for a moment Mycroft rears up a bit, his right hand clambering for purchase on the velvet curved headboard, he latches on with first one then the other hand. Then he brings his full weight to bare and grinds down ruthlessly into Greg's crotch, dragging moans and lowly muttered curses out of both of them. Greg's hands land on Mycroft's hips and hold him still as he thrusts up into the hot hardness hidden behind the bespoke trousers, but after a few thrusts he stills, pinning their groins together, enjoying Mycroft's groans of frustration and the feeling of their cocks flexing at the sensations.

 

Coyly looking up through his eyelashes at Mycroft Greg speaks, "Well, clearly there is interest and chemistry here." his eyes fluttering shut at Mycroft bucking down into his hips again. "Do we want to talk about this more? Or wha..." he trails off in a groan as a smirking Mycroft thrusts against him again sending a shock of arousal tingling down to his toes.

 

Looking up into Mycroft's face he moans out, "God, please stop smirking like Sherlock, it's freaking my brain out!" At which point Mycroft is back in the right corner of the settee in a blink! "God that's a cold shower in a sentence, isn't it now." chuckling Greg levers himself more upright and back as well to rest in the left corner. "Yeah it was," he continues, "good place to pause though, before you had to spend the evening sponging out your suit trousers."

 

Running a hand through his badly dishevelled ginger hair, "Yes, well, it would seem we have an opportunity to talk about our 'elephant' now that the urgency has abated a bit." Greg laughs, content in looking debauched, "So, what are we talking about? If we're going to come out? Retirement plans? What?"

 

A sad look pulls the energy from Mycroft's expression as he takes in the implication that Greg wants to go public and that he cannot. So wrapped up in the internal conversation where Greg tells him that they can't be in a relationship if it isn't public, he misses completely the man himself apologising that he can't go public.

 

"I'm sorry what?" coming out a bit peevishly when he is slow in responding to Greg. Who just shakes his head and laughs. "You silly git! I can't be in a publicly known relationship of any kind with you, closeted or not, no one will take any further upward momentum in my carrier seriously, they'll think my 'mate higher up' made it happened. I can't have that, I need people to think I got there exactly as I did; on my own two feet!"

 

Mycroft chuckles, "So we are committed to one another even though the other is publicly invisible. Perfect." Greg joins him, both in the laugh and on his side of the settee. "we are, aren't we." and they go back to snogging the daylights out of one another. 

 

End Epilouge Two


	30. Epilogue One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, part 1 of the Johnlock epililouge. No, I haven't forgotten you guys, or your need for closure ;)
> 
> See end notes if you want the details of my hiatus.

Four weeks pass and it seems natural to wait. John has grown very insular in the intervening years, and let's face it Sherlock hardly knows how to approach the topic of getting back to a physical relationship.

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

(the first week)

John moves back into 221B straight away, and sleeps in Sherlock's bed, but Sherlock doesn't. He spends most of his time, of an evening, pacing the flat, doing experiments or sitting in the chair beside the bed looking at John. In fact most of his night is spent sitting there because he worries about John disappearing while he's out of the room.

 

On the third day of cohabitation, John comes to Sherlock in the kitchen, his shoulders up around his ears, his face wan and lined with exhaustion, his eyes never lifting from the worktop. To Sherlock's analytical gaze the fear and worry stand out in full caps on his dearest friend's hunched figure. 

 

"Sherlock, I have to ask or I'll go mad thinking about it. Is it alright that I'm sleeping in your bed?"

 

Without thinking about it, Sherlock reaches out and touches John for the first time in days, "Of course it's alright, I would have been gravely disappointed if you had chosen your old room." Sherlock watches the effect his words have, John blooms; the tired, pinched look to his features just melts away and his colour begins to come back again. "That and it is much farther from the kitchen when your nightmares kick up."

 

The colour in his cheeks trebles, "I thought..."

 

"That I was unhappy you were in my bed? No, it is an easily accessible verification of your presence. That you would stop having nightmares? No, though you do quiet instantly if I call your name."

 

Looking down at the hand now clutching his forearm John stifles a chuckle, "Is that your way of saying, 'I missed you and I like to check your actually still there?' Sherlock?"

 

Pulling John along with him to the sofa Sherlock settles in the seat and all but drags his willing partner down beside him before letting go. "I'm afraid I am rather out of practice John, and not quite sure how to proceed. I do love you - never stopped for a second - but after so long I feel as though the understanding of what I can or should be doing with you has dried up and blown away."

 

John nods quietly beside him, "I know what you mean, the last memory my mind brought up - pertaining to you - was pretty pornographic. Yet, I'm frightened I'm dreaming still. If that makes any sense at all?"

 

Sherlock hums his assent, "I must admit I watch you sleeping rather a lot of the time."

 

John laughs, "And I tend to clutch your pillow to my face when I sleep."

 

An answering grin breaks out on Sherlock's face, like the sun streaking through the clouds after a long rain, "I know, that's why I started using only the one pillow, so the sent was stronger." 

 

The both of them are chuckling now, leant up against one another on the sofa talking about the silly things they do when John clears his throat. "Well it's good to know we are on the same page Sherlock, I was worried all this risk had been taken for nothing and I don't think I could have gone on if that had been the way of it."

 

Stilling his laughter Sherlock becomes very serious, "No John, though I see why you could worry - I wasn't without doubt either - but never think I will willingly let you go again. Ever."

 

"So we both want this to work and we're both scared of the implications if we can't get it to work. I guess that leaves us to figure out how to make sure it does."

 

Relaxing fully into the sofa and up against John, Sherlock smirks, "Indeed."

 

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Over the intervening two weeks Sherlock shifts his orbit of the flat to a closer revolution around John. In other words, in stead of watching his love from a distance he watches him out of the corner of his eyes perched somewhere beside him. Instead of pacing about irritably while John goes to bed, he sits on the end of the bed and chats with him till John wants to falls asleep. Instead of turning his nose up at the mention of food he is unresisting when John suggests they go out for tea thrice a week to Angelo's.

 

John too is working at getting his walls down and with every day his need to see Sherlock to keep the fear at bay diminishes. A big step is when he's finally able to contact Pedros, who teases him good natured-ly about leaving him high and dry for the following spring's hiking tours and demands that he and his erômenos* come to visit him before the weather gets too hot.

 

John, who had gone up to his old room to make the call, rings off, after teasing back that Pedros just wants to get John there so that he can be guilted into doing tours. Smiling he rests back against the head of his bed and stares off into middle space imagining Sherlock in the tiny village on Crete.

 

Ten minutes on he starts out of his revery, realising he's fantasising about the future and not reliving the past, but the future! With a short bark of a laugh, he rushes down the stairs to find Sherlock watching him from a reclined position on the settee.

 

With a smirk, "Guess that's our first holiday destination sorted." Then Sherlock's eyebrows rise slowly in dawning surprise, "Honeymoon?"

 

John comes over and shoves and pushes till there is room for him on the settee too. "It's impossible to keep anything secret from you, you know! I hadn't even finished thinking it yet!" a touch frustrated he'd been caught out, John lays into Sherlock, tickling for all he's worth!

 

The shocked expression on Sherlock's face melts away to a tight, manic, grin as he begins giggling uncontrollably. "John....?" his voice cracking halfway and rising steadily in pitch. "How did you know I was ticklish? Please, please, please stop!"

 

Easing up a bit, but still keeping his love giggling, John makes his demand, "Are you going to promise to delete every deduction about honeymoons you just made?"

 

Sherlock, trying to hold out for a while, can't escape the nimble surgeon's fingers skittering along his ribs, "Fine! Yes, yes I will delete it. Promise! Just please stop tickling me!"

 

His voice, dropping a register as he leans his body weight suddenly on Sherlock, John rasps into his ear, "You sure about that?" as the light teasing fingers slow down, the pressure no longer tickling, but tantalising.

 

Clearing his throat roughly, Sherlock attempts to focus, "Yes John, if you wish me to delete the information, I should do it before I am completely distracted."

 

Sliding his hands further under the dressing gown, tugging at the crisp shirt they are wrinkling, purposefully creasing it more, John smiles gently now. "No Sherlock, I love you and that massive brain, I have to be able to except that you will know my thoughts almost before I'm done thinking them." Shirt free of trousers he slides his hands up behind his lover's shoulder blades and pulls himself tight up against Sherlock's ribs.

 

"We can sort the details out later, but tell me Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?" For breathless moments he stares down into those pale blue-green eyes watching as they dilate and seem to get lost for a few moments with that 'thousand yard stare' reserved for trips into his mind palace. 

 

Then the long arms that were loosely pressed against him, having previously been seeking escape, curl around him entrapping them both, clutching at his back, Sherlock blinks and then turns his gaze back to John. "But of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> erômenos: a Greek word defining the younger, less experienced of the two in a male/male loving couple. 
> 
> The truth behind your long waite is, beginning of Dec my bodies hormones went insane and the resulting juggling of supplements and shit KILLED my ambision to write and ability to write smut at all! I was completely numb, chain-reading PWP and Omegaverse 2-4-7 to try and get it back! It did not work. So I had to wait till that got all sorted out.
> 
> Now I've been sitting on this for a bit, and I finally think I have my muse back, so here you go!


	31. Epilogue One Point Five

It was almost two weeks after that, weeks dotted by the occasional snog and cuddle on the sofa, that John realised with a start that Sherlock was undressing with him. "You coming to bed then?" slips past his lips before he can stop it.

 

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, halting in the process of unbuttoning his trousers, "I thought I might." He coyly glances away and back again, "Thought you might fancy some company."

 

Flashing a delighted grin, "I do fancy it, yes, I'd like to pick up where we left off with the snogging if you don't mind." Still grinning John waggled his eyebrows at his lover in an exaggeratedly amusing manner.

 

Shedding the remainder of his clothes like a tree sheds leaves in the autumn, Sherlock stands there in just his pants and a mischievous grin in place. "I'm certain that can be arranged."

 

John laughs delightedly and strips off, his clothes flying every which way; in direct opposition to his usual military fashion of folding and placing everything neatly. With identical grins of delight they both crawl into the bed and slip under the covers, melding to one another shoulder to groin.

 

A relentless moan is torn from them both as the bare skin they each have been dreaming of, for years, is finally in reach and a low pulse of need brings their arousal to a keen edge. John's hands travel along the ivory torso and further gliding up the sides of Sherlock's neck to sink into the curls, just behind his ears on either side and clutching his scull in gentle, but relentless fingers. 

 

With a whispered sigh Sherlock rotates his head on his neck a bit, to see if he's restrained, or just being caressed. He's pleased to discover that while John allows the movement, if it seems Sherlock is pulling away then the fingers tighten their hold in warning.

 

Subtly he arches his back and twitches his hips from side to side, luxuriating in the firm weight of John above him. His arms start to move restlessly mapping out the backbone, ribs and swell of the backside above him. Viciously biting into his lower lip to stifle a moan, Sherlock's eyes flinch shut as John bucks down into him sharply, a result of his long slender fingers tracing over and around the fullest part of Johns buttocks. Right where they join his thighs Sherlock's hands trace over and over again as his middle and ring fingers slide along John's cleft, rubbing gently along the perineum.

 

John's hands flex and tighten in his lover's hair as bolts of frantic lust shimmer low in his gut. He's helpless as the strong sure violinist's fingers tease and sensitise the flesh of his lower buttocks through and around the edges of his pants. The ticklish sensation driving him to the edge of reason, he drops his head and starts laving Sherlock's nipples in retaliation, moaning deep in his throat and fervently wishing Sherlock's nimble fingers would stop teasing and start preparing him already, yet not wanting to loose the current sensation those clever fingers are creating.

 

The moans rise steadily in pitch as the teasing strokes increase in pressure and John works himself into a frenzy licking and nibbling on everything in reach. While between them the low, subsonic, rumble of pleasure pouring from Sherlock adds a sharp tingle to their skin.

 

John is the first to crack. He frantically hitches his hips up to give himself room and one of his hands slithers between them to roughly shove the waste band of his pants down under his bollocks. In the same motion he catches the edge of Sherlock's pants and while he doesn't quite get them as far, the spike of arousal, then thrumming through them, was enough to keep him on task and yank his lover's pants down. The movement, less measured in his mounting lust, is harsh and the material is stretched almost to breaking point, cutting pink lines (a whispered reminder of their lust for the days to come) into his outer thighs but neither man notices in comparison with the blazing sensation of their groins touching, skin to skin.

 

Arching his neck back, Sherlock's hands had come up to John's waist, helping to lift their bodies apart, he moans helplessly, the pitch low and guttering, as John manages to get him free. Whilst John is torn between staring at their flesh pressing together and watching the effects of it as they flicker over Sherlock's face again and again, shifting continually; with a bark of a laugh he grins and bucks into Sherlock again, his hand still busily peeling the offending pants down their legs to be kicked away.

 

Sherlock is locked into a massive feedback loop, John is above him, John is pressing into him, John is alive, John is cackling like a mad man, John has gotten their pants down. His mind snapping to focus Sherlock flails (seemingly effortlessly) to the bedside table snagging the lube out of the open drawer.

 

Mindlessly he thumbs the bottle open one handed and squirts a generous amount into John's waiting hand. Then they both moan in concert as the slick hand worms back down to clutch and smear everywhere their cocks touch. Sherlock, over the small of John's back, squirts more into his own hand directing the overflow down the cleft of John's arse. 

 

Throwing his head back sharply, John almost pulls back out of Sherlock's loosely embracing arms. A shudder runs through him at the sensation of the lube trickling down as it warms and melts. With another buck of his hips he collapses back down landing on Sherlock's chest with an oomph which grows into another set of moans issuing from both of them.

 

Smirking at their state, Sherlock rubs his fingers against his thumb warming the slick as his other hand, having dropped the bottle, reaches down under the plushest part of John's arse and purposely brushing the tips of his fingers up against John's perineum (making him squeak), gently tugs the left cheek to the side, giving himself room to rub and twirl and massage with the fingers of the other hand all around and over the small pucker hidden there.

 

John, who had bare seconds before the onslaught of sensation, relents spreading lube and seizes the left shoulder and upper right arm of his lover in a strong grasp, as the tickling, enflaming, dizzying fingers dance over his flesh. 

 

"Oh, gods Sherlock...." the first words out of either of them since they began. John grips even harder, a full body roll pressing himself further into Sherlock, his knees spreading wider on the bed and tilting his hips forward, seeking both more contact with his cock and more access for Sherlock's questing fingers. With a hitch in his breath, "Gods what you can make me feel is incredible."

 

With a low sinful chuckle, "Yes, I seem to have converted you to a pantheon this time. Don't know if I can uproot your religious ideology every time we have sex. Might be a bit too much pressure, even for me." 

 

Voice rumbling and harsh with lust John fixes his love with a glare, "Oh shut it Sherl, and bloody well get on with it, or so help me I'm off to the loo for a wank."

 

Finally slipping the tips of his fingers in, just in against the aperture, where the muscle clenches tight, as John reflexively bears down easing himself open and allowing Sherlock to slip in further and further, stretching and massaging as he goes. Once half the righthand digits are in up to his knuckles Sherlock releases the butt cheek and slithers the other hand down past his impaling fingers to rub downward to John's balls and back.

 

Awash with riotous sensation, John shifts his hands to clutch the points of Sherlock's shoulders - thumbs pressed into the joint, fingers wrapped round and spread wide. As though covering as much of the joint as possible will tether him against the swells of lust. A feeble belief. His hands clench tighter with every glancing brush of his prostate and Sherlock smirks at the slightly wide eyed, bewildered look in John's eyes. He eagerly devours every flicker of expression, every roll of John's eyes up into his head as the bolts of hot lightning through his groin push him just a bit further toward oblivion.

 

As quickly as they slithered into his body the fingers are gone and John is manhandled forward to sit, his bereft muscles twitching, on Sherlock's navel. Glancing over his shoulder his breath catches again at the sight of those long fingers wrapping around the cock John desperately wants to feel. "Come on Sherlock," half twisting at the waist and trailing barely there fingers along his lover's inner thighs up to the apex and slipping, sure-feeling digits under Sherlock's suddenly lax grip to palm and stroke, "I'd rather like that job, yeah?"

The incoherent subsonic rumble manifesting in helpless grunts the tall man tries to use his leverage to regain the upper hand. Up until John Watson slipped the edge of his thumb under the edge of Sherlock's retracted sheath, pressing the glans roughly against the callused ridge of John's adductor pollicis* muscle and gently twists, as though removing the milk jug lid. 

 

Muscles twitching without his consent, muted moans escaping him as Sherlock's control is effectively stripped from him. Sensation dancing through him in wild sparks of need he restlessly grabs at John's hips sliding him urgently backward. 

 

John happily shifts his hand to slide down the weeping cock grasping at the base of it to angle for easy entrance. Allowing his lover's insistent shoving to bring them together completely. His hands come round to rest on Sherlock's stomach once he's breached, John arches into the feeling enjoying the slip and drag, the completely full feeling that it is, that's making his head swim. Resting his stretched muscles only a moment he slowly begins rutting against Sherlock, drawing away and then down again relentlessly as he's consumed with an urgent sensation of MORE, as though he's chasing it with every snap of his hips. The sharp slap of his arse against Sherlock's pelvis pushing him incrementally closer to completion.

 

Lost in a sea of tightening expectation, their bodies moving in concert bowing tighter and tighter as they come up to the brink and Sherlock pitches his weight upward in an effort to shift John closer to that shimmering feeling inside. Quite suddenly his frame freezes and he locks in a restless rocking motion that John knows comes with ejaculation.

 

Confused he looks down at his own cock, angry purple the glans shuddering and flexing as though he too was coming, but he isn't, other than the precum that is still running down the sides, there is no other offering. He feels like he is, and frankly he's a bit confused by the sensations running rampant through his body. 

 

Looking down into Sherlock's eyes he sees only the affection they have for one another, awe and a touch of surprise. "You did not ejaculate John, and neither did I. Given I just felt the size of your prostate we don't need to worry about that. We are, I believe, just lucky today and experiencing multiple orgasms."

 

John thinks to himself for a moment about the possibility, "While it has been known to happen in some individuals, it is a touch odd to happen to both of us at the same time." Worry beginning to cloud John's brain he is completely unprepared for Sherlock to roll his hips. The shock of almost too sensitive nerves all firing at the same time throws him forward, hands back at Sherlock's shoulders, eyes wide and staring into the dilated sea-green eyes and smirking lips of his lover.

 

Who finally takes his turn, stretching and levering them over onto John's back, whilst pulling almost out and slamming home, "Since when have we ever been average case studies John?' 

 

Whining high in the back of his throat as everything changes, becomes more, better and all encompassing, John grinds out, "Oh,..god...YES."

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *adductor pollicis muscle is the web of muscle between the thumb and index finger. In John's case callused from years of fire arms handling ;) 
> 
>  
> 
> As for males having multiple orgasms, yes it does happen. Often as a medical side effect (some anti anxiety meds do this) as well as prostate issues which can be a bad thing. It is also possible to practice to do (tantric sex does this ;P) and not impossible, though very rare.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: 'kupia' (pronounced kyira) is Greek for 'lady'.
> 
> vaì kalà (pronounced nai kala) is 'yeah right'.
> 
> I will, later today post some pictures and links for this story in a separate file.


End file.
